


Enemy of my Enemy

by iamrecyclable



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Hate to Love, Romance, Slow Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamrecyclable/pseuds/iamrecyclable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aveline had once said she was like an eye of a hurricane and Fenris couldn't help but agree. Fighting for his freedom, the Tevinter fugitive formed a fragile trust with Charlotte Hawke, an apostate. A novelization of a sarcastic Mage f!Hawke/Fenris of Dragon Age 2. Rated M for graphic depictions of violence and (eventual) smut. Will change to explicit when I get there.<br/>Warning for future Hawke/Isabela and Fenris/Isabela friends with benefits situations. (Dunno how big yet)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival to Kirkwall

For the past few weeks, Fenris had been running on nothing but adrenaline and any berries, nuts and gamy meat he managed to scavenge. He did not recognize the plant-life in this region and his last meal gave him a fever that took him almost a week to break. It was just sheer luck that the hunters had not caught up to him wandering around deliriously in the hills.

Fenris preferred the cities. Even if this wretched place stank of fish and desperation, it was a welcome reprieve from the hunt. There were hundreds, if not thousands of refugees swarming the dark shanties of the Undercity, and the stink was familiar, if not a bit comforting. Down here, he was just another elf covered in dust and muck. He could gather information and collect his bearings.

He was sure he had lost most of his pursuers since Ostwick, though he wasn't sure how far behind they were. Was it better to keep heading west like he had been doing or try his chances in Ferelden? They had just recovered from a Blight and it might be easier to get lost in the chaos. Either way, he needed to pause. He didn't want to make the mistake of heading back towards Tevinter again.

The slavers had come not a day later and brought a rumor that had caught his ear. Rumor had it that Danarius had come with the slavers and carried a trinket with him; something that belonged to the Lyrium Warrior from before he became it. He didn't act on the rumor for a few days. All of the Tevinter slavers kept talking about the trinket; it was the surest sign of a trap if he'd ever heard it.

There was only one thing that Danarius could have possibly thought to bring with him- an elven amulet made from ironbark and carved with a simple Dalish design. It was supposedly his mother's greatest treasure, though he wouldn't have known any different. For all he knew Danarius had picked it up from a random merchant and told him that it was from his mother just so he could withhold it from him when he was 'bad' and reward him with it in the obscure moments when he was 'good.' He used to fall asleep looking at it, imagining his mother's face, wondering what hope she felt looking at it. He liked to believe that it belonged to his family and was secretly passed down before the generations that they were slaves, but he was sure it was just fantasy.

It would be foolish for him to risk his freedom on the off-chance that he'd be able to get back a simple trinket, and yet he couldn't get it out of his mind. In the quiet moments of being invisible amongst the refugees, he ached to hold it in his hands and the ache refused to leave him. So he began to plot. Fenris head was reeling. He knew that they knew that he knew it was a trap, but how did one plan for that? With enough coin he was sure he could be able to convince any fool to spring the trap for him. He could take out the hunters in one fell swoop and give himself a much needed respite from all of the running. And…he might be able to get it back.

He spent much the last few days getting to know the city, sleeping on rooftops in Lowtown and stealing from unsuspecting nobles in Hightown. He was a clumsy pickpocket but he was able to manage snatching 5 whole sovereigns from several shops. All the time, he studied the criminal guilds to see if there were any hirelings he could employ, but as many desperate folk were in the city, the Coterie seemed to be the only guild that he could look for questionable work. It didn't take him long to discover that there were huge slaving networks in the Undercity, so he knew that he would need to be careful. It didn't take long for the news of an escaped elven slave that once belonged to a powerful magister to hit the all the criminal guilds. Now all of the eyes of the underworld were looking for an odd, white-haired elf with pale lyrium tattoos. They would flush him out of hiding soon enough.

He would need to consider his next move carefully.

A few days later, while carefully tailing a few Tevinter slavers from his hunting party, he stumbled upon an argument about a tiny little thieves guild that wasn't even big enough to have a name.

"Bloody knife-ear. She's stupid to not take the coin." Fenris knew this voice to be Diana. He recognized her voice from Ostwick and was Captain Clemens right hand. She was ruthless woman who wouldn't hesitate to kill innocents to get her way. He was surprised that she had allowed an elf to cross her and live.

"We can eliminate them for insurance." This was a lower officer's voice whom Fenris did not know. Whether they had resupplied their troops or he had just not taken notice of him before, he did not know.

"Doesn't matter," Diana replied. "She's not a threat. He's been sighted in the city. Let's make another report to the Captain. I heard they're meeting with a man named Brekker."

Fenris knew he should leave. With more eyes on the city he would be found within days and he had spent much time at the docks telling himself to slip on a boat- any boat. But he couldn't bring himself to. Though he was sure the trinket was not here, he needed to be certain.

Fenris found himself at a warehouse in Lowtown after paying some silver to a beggar outside of a dirty little tavern. It looked like it had been abandoned for at least the decade and was definitely not the most glamorous place to host a criminal operation. If his information was wrong, he would pay the beggar another visit.

He approached the door and began to knock.

"Don't move," a voice warned. A man he thought was another vagrant was now pointing a slung arrow at him. He was in a forest green, tattered hood, but underneath he wore leather armor with a strangely Dalish aesthetic. He had distinct green eyes that many of the elves shared, himself included, and deep beige skin marked with curving tattoos on his forehead and cheeks. He wore his woodsy, brown hair in a tight braid. "Speak your business or I'll shoot."

Fenris carefully raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, though he wondered if he could reach for his sword fast enough. "I wish to arrange business with your leader."

"What kind of business?" the elf grunted.

"That is between me and your leader," Fenris said firmly.

The elf grunted again, loosening his arrow, but not by much. He gestured with his head, "follow me."

The elf kept his arrow trained on Fenris and carefully backed into a side alley. He had hoped that the elf would look away long enough for him to lunge, but he had seemed to memorized the steps and never took his eyes off of him. The elf kicked over a large plank of wood, which was hiding a secret entrance. "Get inside," he instructed.

Fenris obeyed now finding himself in a tiny, damp room piled with crates. It seemed well-stocked with a random assortment of merchandise. In the middle was a blond elven woman behind a large, maple desk. There were a few papers scattered on it as well as a few half-empty wine bottles and coin. She was lounging cozily in her half-shredded arm-chair, casually picking dirt out of from under her fingernails with a dagger.

"Ah, Marco," she said warmly. There were a few strands of hair in her green eyes from where it was falling out of her ponytail. "You've brought a guest."

"This is Athenril. State your business. Reach for your sword and you die." the elf named Marco warned. He kept his arrow steady on Fenris.

Fenris felt like there was a huge lump in his throat and he tried to swallow it down. He knew all the eyes in the room were on him, and all he wanted to do was hide again. The bottom of his feet were sweating and the dust from the wood on the floor was sticking to them. "I've come to…appeal for you help. I would like to pay for a small contingent of men for a…problem I'm having."

She stopped and leaned forward, studying him. "You must be the Tevinter fugitive."

'Shit,' he thought. He knew that with his white hair, elven heritage, and distinct lyrium markings would be difficult to hide. He wasn't expecting her to figure it out so soon. He had to trust that the rumors about her were true or he'd be sent off to Tevinter before sunset.

She sighed when he didn't answer. "You seem like a nice kid, but I don't mess with slavers." Athenril leaned back in her chair attending to her nails again. Though it was a run-down warehouse, she held herself as if it was a kingdom and that mold-stained chair was her throne. Two burly humans stood on either side of her, clad in full heavy armor and two-handed blades at their hips, and daggers for eyes, but she seemed undisturbed. Apparently cleaning the dirt out from under her fingers was a better use of her time than talking to an escaped elven slave. "I don't like to pass on business but you might want to try to Coterie for this. They have the manpower you're looking for."

Fenris leveled a glare, but did not move. "Your unwillingness to deal with flesh is what brought me here. You possess…morals. The Coterie have none. I'd prefer to do my business with you." He also knew that the Coterie would probably turn on him for his bounty of 10 times his asking price. He would not risk trusting them.

The elf-woman laughed a hearty laugh. "I possess morals." She laughed again even harder and pointed a delicate finger at him. "Look…I feel for your situation. I do. I used to be you, but distracting a Tevinter hunting party sounds like it'd lose me a lot of good men. I don't have that many left." She waved him away.

The elf gritted his teeth, his face squeezed into a scowl. Fenris tried to keep a calm demeanor, calculating whether or not he could kill everyone in the warehouse but he had no element of surprise. He could not risk grievous injuries while the slavers were on such high alert. He should have known it was too much to ask, but he had to try. "Would I be able to buy your silence, then?"

"You can try," Athenril chuckled, but then she stopped mid-laugh as if she thought of something. She turned her head to Marco. "Actually…bring Anso if you will."

The archer lowered his bow, and disappeared deeper into the warehouse. "I…am confused? Are we reaching a new arrangement?"

"Not with me. Like I said, I keep my hands out of the flesh business," she dug her dagger into her desk, as if to emphasize that it would be her final say on that. He noticed that there were many notch-holes dug into her desk. "But, I might be able to point you to a…contact if you will. For a price."

He was utterly confused. Was this a trick? He mentally readied himself to draw his sword in case it was. "Thank you," he said carefully.

She waved her hand in front of her mouth again. It must be a common Free March gesture because he noticed that many of the ladies spoke like that. "Don't thank me, yet. She doesn't work for me anymore and we kind of had a falling out so I can't guarantee she'll even agree, but this is right up her alley."

A pair of heavy footsteps kicked up the dust behind him. "Y-you wanted to see my, Messere Athenril," He was a funny little dwarf, with grey, buggy eyes and wiry black hair. No braid was in his bushy beard. He rubbed his meaty hands nervously.

"Ah, Anso. I have some work for you," the elven woman had a smile on her face, but Fenris swore her words were dripping with venom.

The dwarf he presumed was Anso nervously bowed and then bowed again for good measure. "Y-you are g-gracious, Messere Athenril."

She took out a quill and piece of paper off of her desk and scribbled down a quick note before stuffing it into an envelope. She made no effort to seal it. "I want you to deliver this message to Charlotte Hawke. You know where she lives?"

"I-I can't say that I do…"

She beckoned him to take the letter from her hand which he did so nervously. He was shaking so bad that it looked like it might have been crumpled. "Marco will show you. She's actually in a little hovel not too far from here, but be prepared to have a few mercenaries lined up just in case Hawke's still too ruffled by our last encounter. Pull off this elf's request and I'll consider your debt cut by 10 percent."

"So you want me to pay for the information with no guarantee?" Fenris raised a strong, black eyebrow. He was deeply regretting stepping foot in here. This woman came with too many risks.

"You want a guarantee?" she threw an accusing glare. "All of the Undercity's looking for an elf with white hair and your markings. You don't exactly blend in. Walk away from this and you will have to take your chances on the run, but work with me I can give you information on where that trap of yours is, and a woman who with the skill to help you."

Fenris shifted his weight uncomfortably, painfully aware of how vulnerable he was. "You are sure she can help me?"

For some reason that made Athenril chuckle. "I don't want to say too much, but she was the reason that my…business was able to be as successful as it was while the Coterie was busy gutting our competition. Let's just say, I was very sad to see her go."

"And how much will this information cost me?"

She tilted her head, examining him up and down. It reminded Fenris of how Danarius looked at potential slaves at the marketplace, though there wasn't any poking and prodding. "You look like you're pretty handy with that sword. How about you pay me in services rendered. One year sounds about right for the risk on my end." She had the smile of a viper.

He tried not to betray his nervousness but every instinct had told him to run from this woman. "I…suppose I have no choice."

"Perfect," she cooed, ripping the dagger out of the desk. "Might want to keep that coin. You'll need it to pay Hawke if she comes through." Her eyes flicked over to Anso and she scowled. "What are you still doing here? Scat!"

"O-of course, Messere," Anso jumped at that, bending the letter in half and scuttled off.

Fenris watched him leave. He wasn't sure if he would live long enough to regret this.


	2. Business Discussion

Blood, so much blood. Maker, it was on her hands, on her clothes, on her face. It was black and sticky and smelled like raw, rotted meat seeped in moldy sewage. She wanted to wretch up her breakfast but she swallowed the vomit down. She could not lose herself. Not now.

Darkspawn, with their chewed off lips, cracked teeth and dead, white eyes screeched at her, swords raised high. 'Burn them,' she thought desperately. 'Burn them all.' Her hands were raw from the spells, and she was sure the tips of her fingers were thoroughly cooked but she dare not stop. She could not stop. Carver, Bethany, and Mother were all depending on her.

The ground shook and she swore rocks were at the pit of her stomach. Pebbles scattered from her feet. It was coming. The creature had dead, grey skin and glittered with fresh blood. It dripped from his hands, from his fangs and from the tips of his large, curved horns. An ogre…

'Maker save us.'

He crouched and bellowed, baring large, sharpened tusks. It was so loud she could feel it vibrating in her bones. Darkspawn poured from either side of the choke point, their only way out. Carver and Aveline tried to distract as many of them as they could, but there were so many that slipped past their defenses. 'We're trapped,' she panicked.

A hurlock grabbed for her, firmly gripping her arm. It's hands felt like cracked leather and it's breath smelled like the privy. It opened it's mouth, tongue missing. Without thinking, flames erupted from Hawke's hands and engulfed the hurlock and it cried out tearing at it's own skin before it crumpled to the ground. She was too close. Her arm was singed from where the hurlock gripped her.

"Bethany!" It was Mother's cry.

The ogre had her sister in one hand. When did this happen? She ran towards her, but was blocked by two more hurlocks. She barely dodged the swipe of one's sword, and it took all her strength to parry the second. She knew she should focus on her fight, but she gawked at the ogre. Bethany looked like a doll in a child's hands. He began to squeeze. "Bethany!" Hawke screamed. She spun her staff, the first hurlock lost it's sword. Bethany and her Mother shrieked, though their screams were deafened by darkspawn war cries. The second hurlock lunged and she brought her staff upward, slashing it's jaw and it landed on the ground, twitching slightly. In the same motion, she hammered the mace side of her staff on it's head. It's skull split open with a sickening crack.

'I'm coming,' Hawke thought desperately. The first one lunged back at her. Now bladeless, it was hardly a threat. She easily sidestepped it and as it stumbled, she thrusted the blade side of her staff through it's neck. Bethany screamed again in agony, though her voice was now thick and sounded wet.

She tried to remove her staff, but she found it was caught in the hurlock's throat. Hawke's head was reeling from all of the noise. She abandoned her staff for a moment focusing on the ogre. In desperation, she shot an ice dagger into it's eye. Blood spurted from the wound, and the monster tore it out with his free hand. Black blood sprayed Bethany and her mother. Maker, it was everywhere. In the pain, the ogre squeezed harder and her sister popped like a grape. He threw her aside and her sister fell with a sickly thud.

The giant moaned, nursing it's eye socket. That allowed Aveline and Carver a chance to route more darkspawn away from her mother. Bethany was bleeding out, coughing and gurgling. 'She can't-' Hawke cast a fire spell at the incoming hurlocks before they could approach her sister, but as they fell, more bulldozed over them, charging for her. She turned back to her staff and steadying one foot on the fallen hurlock's back, she yanked it out. She turned, and a horde had cornered them, trampling her fallen sister.

"Bethany!" She couldn't die. They were supposed to survive together. She threw a healing spell her way, but it missed. She couldn't reach her.

"Bethany!" This wasn't happening.

"Charlotte," Carved cried, shaking her shoulder.

Hawke looked down at the mug of piss-ale that she was drinking and took a moment to remember where she was. She remembered that she couldn't afford it, but she wasn't going to tell the dwarf that invited her that she was sleeping on a straw-stuffed potato sack in the corner of her Uncle's hovel. Her brother was next to her, with his own mug, and an almost concerned expression on their face. There was no denying that they were siblings. They shared the same straight, black hair, dark single-lidded eyes, and warm tawny beige skin. While their mother and Gamlen had the wide, flat noses of the Amells, Carver and Charlotte had the beaky nose of their father, though her brother's was much more defined.

She blinked, letting the sounds come back into focus. Two drunk men were having a conversation about the Hero of Ferelden defeating the Archdemon. A barmaid slammed a mug on the table, causing some of it to splash over. The stench of sour ale soaked into wood over decades made her nose wrinkle. That's right. She was discussing a way to get into the Deep Roads with this blond, beardless dwarf. "Where are my manners," she chuckled, taking a sip of her piss-ale. It didn't taste as bad as it smelled.

The dwarf chuckled, unaware that she had even faded out. "I was just asking what you were thinking when you were cornered by that ogre. I've never met anyone who's crossed one and lived."

"Is this a personal visit or a business discussion?" Carver asked with an agitated edge to his voice. He ran his fingers through his slicked back, spiked hair. He had started wearing it like that shortly after he turned 18, and ran off to play soldier for King Cailan. Charlotte liked to call him a pissy porcupine when he was being a jackass.

"Come now, Carver. Be polite to our partner," she swatted him playfully which caused him to grunt. Hawke had hit him a little harder than she meant to. She was still trying to shake the image of Bethany's death out of her mind. "Hmm, well for the first few moments, I was thinking what do they feed those things. It was at least 15-feet tall, and Maker did it have breath like nothing like you've ever smelled. Or maybe you have. Being in this stench brings back memories."

Varric laughed heartily, and brought up his mug for an impromptu toast. "Maker, would I have loved to see that."

"Stick with me, Varric, and I promise we'll get into more trouble than that," she raised her glass to meet his, and at the clink, they both drained half of their mugs. The effects of the ale seemed to soothe her frantic mind. She needed this dwarf and he seemed to think that he needed her, too. She would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

The dwarf chuckled again, rapping his knuckled on the table. "Since we're nice and loose, I wanted to discuss a little problem that Bartrand and I've run into."

"Great," Carver muttered into his mug.

"Now don't fret Little Hawke," the dwarf grinned and Carver bristled at his nickname. "I have a plan. You see, we had an entrance lined up for the Deep Roads but it ended up being a bust. If we don't find another one, we'll have a fancy expedition with nowhere to go."

"So," Hawke said, tracing the rim of her mug with her middle finger. "Tell me the good news."

Varric leaned in, and brought his voice to a whisper, as if he was telling them a secret. "Word is a Grey Warden came off the last boat of refugees."

"A Grey Warden?" Hawke raised a fine eyebrow. Now this was getting interesting.

"What's a Grey Warden doing in the Kirkwall? There's not an outpost, here," Carver shook his head. He always did seem to think that denying something somehow made it true.

"When did you become such an expert?" Hawke teased.

Her brother stiffened, turning his face away in embarrassment. "I had a passing interest in them in Ostagar." He sipped a bit more of his ale and gave a good nod at the dwarf. "It's a good start. They forge into the Deep Roads all the time. He might have a map."

"Or could lead us in the right direction at least. Worth checking out," Hawke agreed.

"But… I don't suppose you would front the coin for the maps," Carver frowned at Varric. He knew as well as Hawke that they had just spent some of their last coppers on this swill.

"I'm not that charitable," Varric chuckled and dramatically shrugged. "But surely you two are perfectly capable of scrounging up your own work."

"Ruttin' useless you are, you know that," her brother muttered, which only caused Varric to chuckle again.

Hawke frowned thinking about the letter she received last night when they got home from Aveline's 'bounty.' Fat lot it did for her coinpurse, but Aveline was now well on her way to a cushy position as guard-captain and whether her friend liked it or not, she would breathe easier knowing that the law was on her side…to a point. She pulled out the letter from her pocket. She was really hoping that it wouldn't come to this, but it wasn't like she could afford to be choosy. "I have something in mind, but you're not going to like it, Carver." She slid it across the table to her brother.

It read:

_Charlotte,_

_You might be interested in something that's come up. A contact of mine, a fellow by the name of Anso, is asking around for someone competent regarding a job, and I suggested you. He's always paid well, so if I were you, I'd check into it before someone else snaps it up. He said he'll be in the Lowtown Bazaar tonight. ___

_Athenril ___

Carver handed it back to her muttering something under his breath. "Are we really going to forget the last heist she pulled?"

"Ah, the brilliant Orlesian wig caper," Hawke grinned at the memory which caused Carver's perpetual frown to deepen.

"I'm sensing a story here," Varric tilted his head in interest before draining his mug.

Hawke waved her hand in front of her face in dismissal. "Oh just the the usual game of intrigue that comes with being in league with smugglers."

Carver snorted in agreement. "Athenril decided instead of holding up her end of the bargain, she'd try to squeeze more work out of us. She claimed she wanted us to move a shipment of Orlesian wigs from her warehouse to her contact at the docks. Turned out to be a stinking ambush set up by the bitch herself. She planned to have the shipment stolen so we'd be liable for it. Would've had us under her thumb for another year at least."

"Oh, but we're too clever for that," Hawke teased which caused Carver to roll his eyes at her. The only reason they weren't still indebted to the elf was sheer luck and of course Hawke was all too glad to take credit for it. They were ambushed shortly after getting to the docks and Aveline, Hawke and Carver had barely managed to overpower the ambush. Hawke just happened to recognize the voice of the ambush leader as Marco, one of Athenril's men. The elf refused to talk but it was easy enough for Carver and Aveline to 'persuade' one of the other surviving ambushers to spill their whole plan. They had walked out of that job debt-free and needless to say, there were many hard feelings.

Varric frowned deeply at Carver. "Junior, you have no sense of storytelling."

"Stop calling me that-"

"No exaggerated battles, no witty comments, no sense of dramatic timing, and you give away the plot right at the beginning!"

Carver glared over at his sister who was smirking at him. "I'll just let my sister do the talking from now on, then. She seems to be good at it."

"I'm just more pleasant to listen to, little brother," she shrugged.

Carver stiffened, drinking the rest of his mug. It seemed they had all gotten to the bottom of their glasses now. "Well, we better go convince Aveline to come along while we have time to kill. She's just gonna love this."

"Maker," she agreed. She was lucky that Aveline loved her...to a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://s144.photobucket.com/user/BLoODliNG_fAIry/media/fenris_zpscad65f45.png.html)
> 
> This is a doodle of my Hawke and Fenris that I thought I'd include. I just wanted to also note that I'm new to this site and fanfiction in general so I don't know what else to put here. I haven't bought Sebastian's DLC so I'm sorry that he won't be in this work.


	3. Bait and Switch

Athenril still wanted a sovereign. Fenris had basically placed himself in servitude for a year, and she still demanded a whole sovereign for 'information.' Blasted harpy. He was right not to trust her. After some argument, she loaned him Marco and a few archers for his flanking charge, though he was aware that they would not provide him with any melee support. He silently prayed to whoever was listening that this Hawke woman was as good as Athenril believed for any misguided bravado would result with him in chains and this woman's corpse on his conscience. He felt a twinge of guilt when it crossed his mind, but he pushed it out just as quickly. Sellswords knew the risks.

Fenris, Marco, and two other nameless men, that he had not bothered to learn the names of, had stationed themselves strategically on the market place roof. He saw the top of Anso's black hair sway as he paced in a consistent figure eight. He seemed to be muttering something to himself as he checked the crates behind him. It didn't make sense to Fenris. Those crates didn't even belong to him. It was nearing the middle of the night and most of the beggars had returned to Darktown. Lowtown citizens had already turned off their lanterns for bed. The night chill had settled in, but Hawke was still not here. Fenris wondered if the woman's grudge against Athenril ran too deep. The guild-leader had warned him that it was a distinct possibility. This thought made his palms slick with sweat. His heart pounded steadily like a Seheron drum. 'Breathe,' he reminded himself.

The Tevinter Hunters were all in place, and there would not be a better time to strike. Danarius had followed him here, he was sure of it. There would not be another opportunity to turn the hunt against him. When he was just about to lose his nerve, he saw four people coming around the corner from Hightown. It was too dark to make out details, but he observed a red-haired woman in guards uniform. She was tall and had a stern look about her and appropriately carried a heavy shield and longsword. 'That must be Hawke,' he thought. She certainly looked like a woman that could handle herself. Beside her was a much smaller black haired woman who was stretching lazily as if she was bored. She was wearing light leather clothes and held a bladed staff. 'An odd weapon choice,' he thought. He didn't know many warriors who preferred the bladed staff but it did look like it had seen battle. He guessed from her light armor and odd weapon choice that she was a rogue, but he wasn't too certain. Behind the two women was a dwarf. He wore light leather clothes was beardless; a crossbow was strapped to his back. He seemed to be pestering the tall man behind him, though he couldn't hear what was said. The broad, dark-haired man dragged his feet and his face was twisted in a sour squinting expression. He possessed a broadsword similar to the claymore Fenris carried.

They approached the market and the rogue-woman squinted into the darkness as if she was scanning it. The red-haired woman nudged her, and pointed to Anso, who was in a corner shuffling through his things.

"Are you Anso?" the rogue-woman greeted the dwarf with a wave.

The dwarf yelped in surprise, turning to see the group still closing the space between them. "Sweet Mother of Paragons, you can't just sneak up on someone like that."

"Pardon," the rogue-woman chuckled, and bowed slightly in apology. "I heard you needed something taken care of."

"Are you the Hawke?" Anso asked. His voice was shaking and Fenris realized so were his knees.

"Just Hawke, thanks," she replied with a cock-sure grin. The rogue-woman claimed the name? Fenris was confused and leaned slightly over the edge to study her closer. The red-haired woman and Hawke wore their hair in a similar fashion, though the rogue did not look nearly as fierce. He found her name ironic, because she had a delicate but hawk like nose and single-lidded eyes that curved upwards, especially when she smiled. The black haired man shared that nose, though it was more pronounced. Their resemblance was striking and he could only guess that they were siblings.

Fenris rubbed his tense neck with his cold gauntlet, trying not to betray how flustered he felt. This woman did not look particularly strong nor smart. He saw nothing that had distinguished this woman from any other hireling he had ever come across and yet Athenril swore by her. Perhaps Athenril simply had pathetic recruits.

"You're a mite jumpy. Expecting an attack?" Hawke's voice had a playful lilt to it.

"No, no," Anso said shaking his hands in dismissal, and then gulped in nervousness. "Or, I hope not. Anyhow, my apologies, human. I haven't been on the surface for very long. I keep thinking I'm going to fall up into that sky."

"How absurd," the red-haired guard said crossly.

The beardless dwarf laughed and nudged Hawke who was also chuckling. "Bartrand used to be like that. Got jumpy every time he stepped outside."

"I'd pay to see that." For a moment the black-haired man relaxed into a grin, but he went back to scowling not soon after.

"But I digress," Anso brought up his hands, bringing them back on topic. He seemed slightly embarrassed. "I need some help, rather badly in fact. Some product of mine has been misplaced and the men who were supposed to retrieve it for me decided not to. If you retrieve my property, I'll reward you handsomely."

"What did they steal?" Hawke asked.

Anso made a sound similar to a laugh, but reminded Fenris more of a choking bird. "Did I say steal? I don't know if I'd go that far. They seemed like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They smiled and everything." He internally groaned, hoping that their cover was enough. They already seemed suspicious and this idiotic dwarf was giving them every reason to be. "The goods are valuable, however…and illegal, and my client wants them very, very badly. You know how Templars can be."

"You're smuggling lyrium to the templars?" Hawke said in disbelief.

"Maker's breath! Between the chantry, the carta, and the coterie," the beardless dwarf shook his head.

"Sshh!" Anso hissed, looking widened his gray eyes in panic. "By the Paragons, not so loudly! My word. I'm not cut out for this. I should have taken that job sweeping stables like Mother insisted." Fenris saw that the dwarf was cracking. The lie was his idea, but the dwarf was giving an uninspiring performance. He couldn't believe he had paid a whole sovereign for this mess.

"Lyrium," the red-haired guardswoman groused. "Hawke, I'm about to be Captain of the guard. You can't actually expect me to participate in this. I should be arresting you, all of you."

Anso seemed to sway on his feet, like he was about to faint, and Fenris couldn't say he was faring any better. His whole plan could fall apart because this Hawke woman was stupid enough to bring a guard along. He resisted the urge to punch the ground in anger.

"I told you bringing her would be a bad idea," the black haired man seemed to echo Fenris' thoughts.

"One moment," she pointed at Anso who seemed to be praying and grabbed the guardswoman's forearm. Fenris was surprised when she actually followed instead of cuffing the rogue. "Aveline, you know how important this is."

"Yes, Hawke, but there are other ways to get your coin. You told me this job was different. I can't keep protecting you." Aveline's eyebrows were knitted with worry, not the reaction Fenris had expected.

"Well I didn't really know what the job was so I did … twist the truth in my favor," Hawke shrugged sheepishly. "Never mind that. What about a trade. I'll do…" she paused, pressing a finger to her lips. Fenris wondered what this woman could possibly bribe the law with. "Oh! What about my special 30-minute foot massage."

"Hawke-" the guardswoman crossed her arms looking unamused.

"Fine, a 30-minute foot massage and I'll help you file your paperwork."

"This is serious-"

"Wait, an hour foot massage and I'll be your personal errand girl for one whole day. My services will include telling you what a wonderful, strong, beautiful and understanding friend you are for helping me do this." She took the guardswoman's hands in her own and she looked to be pouting. Unbelievable.

For a moment, Fenris thought Hawke would be cuffed for sure, but the woman's face softened. "You know flattery doesn't work on me."

Hawke must have picked up on that same weakness for her lips twisted into a triumphant smirk. "Oh, it must be because you're going to say yes," the rogue said in a sing-song voice while waggling her finger playfully. This was the woman that held his life in his hands? He would be better of just abandoning his frivolous task and jump on the next boat out of Kirkwall. In fact, he was strongly considering it.

"Don't bother, Charlotte," the black haired man sneered. "Should just be a walk, right? We can do this without her."

The red-haired woman bit her lip before her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Just another thing on my list of crimes I'm accomplice to."

"I owe you, Aveline." Hawke gave her a quick hug and then turned back to Anso, who seemed like he was about to lose his dinner. "Now I just need the location and I'll be back in 15 minutes tops."

"R-right," Anso said breathlessly. "It's in a hovel in the alienage. You'll know it by a x notched into the door."

Hawke flashed another cock-sure smile and mock saluted before heading right into the direction of the alienage. Anso gasped and collapsed onto a crate beside him, breathing heavily. His task was finally done.

"Freedom was interesting while it lasted," Fenris muttered.

"You haven't been captured yet, elf," Marco replied. Fenris found that the elf wasn't too stiff once introductions were out of the way, but he wasn't here to make friends. "I've faced Hawke in battle…once. You could not pay me enough to draw my weapon against her again." Fenris stared in a renewed interest as Hawke disappeared from his sight, but his opinion remained unchanged. He did not see Marco as a particularly impressive warrior, but he would see for himself soon enough.

It was time to move into position. Fenris and the others climbed off of the roof and shadowed the Hawke's group to the tavern. They paused, the lanterns were still on in the Hanged Man and he could hear the sounds of men laughing and singing from inside. According to Athenril's intelligence, the slavers would concentrate most of their troops at and around the buildings around the alienage. Marco and his men decided the best place to take their stand was on the roof of the Hanged Man. Now he was suddenly grateful it was the middle of the night. Anyone still awake was busy drinking their weight in ale.

They scouted the walls around the tavern, trying to find an easy way up. They found a stack of crates where they all could climb up, but the railing looked like it could only hold one man at a time. Fenris yanked on the railing, testing it, but Marco stopped Fenris before he began his ascent. He pointed behind them to an odd shadow moving on the ground that was coming from the roof.

"Your cue, elf," he said, nudging him ahead.

Fenris muttered a curse under his breath, but climbed the railing as he was asked. His body was conditioned for this, though he mostly climbed building and not trees. Tied down to a trunk, ten feet above the world, was one of the few places he felt comfortable enough to rest for a few hours. There was no ledge to balance on so when he reached the top, all he could do was dangle. 'It's only a 20-foot drop,' he thought, but he'd be landing on Marco and his men, and the force would in all likelihood, break the crates and injure them all. Taking a deep breath, he prayed for good timing and hoisted himself up enough so he could see.

Athenril's report was spot on. There were already 4 archers patrolling the roof, though they were all facing away from him, watching for signs of his presence at the alienage. He quickly lowered himself. He was sure he could take them on, but he wasn't sure if the sounds of a battle would bring an amount he couldn't handle.

He quickly climbed down, putting a finger over his mouth and motioned Marco and his men over. "How's your aim?" he whispered.

Marco leaned in close, and murmured, "we're not master archers, but we're capable of landing a clean kill from about 80 yards."

"I've counted four men on the roof. I'm going to lure them to the edge. Aim for their throats." They unpacked their bows and nodded in reply.

He scaled back up the wall, and shimmied a few feet sideways. He told himself not to look down as he let go of the wall with one hand and pulled his claymore off his back. Clang! The sound of the metal crashing on brick rang through the air.

"What was that?" one of the hunters said.

"Collin, go check it out," another one huffed.

Fenris eyed Marco and his men, whose bows were already strung, waiting. His shoulder socket burned, and his fingers ached at the weight of him and the weight of his sword, but he bore down, letting the pain fuel his anger. He saw the shadow of the hunter approaching, and he swung his body upwards and pushed his sword through him. The man opened his mouth and began to cry out, but an arrow was lodged into his throat not a moment later. He fell to the ground with a thud. It took all of Fenris' strength not to let his sword fall with the slaver's body.

"Collin!" All of the archers ran to the edge, but they were silenced with arrows before they could retaliate. One by one, they crumpled to the floor.

Fenris lobbed his sword onto the roof, and quickly hoisted himself over before he slipped. He fell onto a slaver's body, which was still warm and twitching. He groaned and rolled sideways, still breathing heavily from the pain in his aching shoulder joints. Marco and his men joined him a few moments later.

"Good work," Marco said over him. Fenris nodded and reached for his sword. There would be time to rest later.

They never raised themselves from their crouched positions but followed the connecting houses as far as they could. He could see why the hunters chose this area. From up here, Fenris could see all the way into the alienage. A Tevinter archer could easily snipe any unsuspecting victim without any risk to himself.

Fenris eyes caught an elven vagrant who seemed to be fleeing the alienage. The elf was twitching nervously, and he scanned the area before he slipped into a dark alley. A few moments later he heard a scream and a whole battalion of soldiers poured out and converged around the area. He estimated twenty-five men had come crawling out of the alleys by the time all of the slavers were in position. Trailing them, he spotted Lieutenant Diana, with a self-satisfied smirk on her face. She was cleaning blood off of her sword. Fenris filled with panic. He had never seen so many hunters in one area. It must have cost Danarius a small fortune. He didn't care how talented that Hawke woman was. There was no way she would survive this, not without his help.

As if on cue, Hawke and her group walked out of the trap. He could barely hear Lieutenant Diana angrily screaming that it wasn't the elf before the fight ensued.

Fenris stood up to help them, but in the corner of his eye he saw a group of reinforcements of at least 10 men running in the alley below them. 'No archers or mages. I can handle that,' he thought.

"I'll take my stand here," he told Marco as he leaned over the edge, readying himself. "I'd appreciate any cover fire you can provide me."

"Good luck," Marco nodded, readying another arrow.

Before he could think about it, he jumped. Fenris tried his best to ignore the feeling of his stomach in his throat, and he aimed his sword at a rogue that was lagging behind the party. His claymore buried itself to the hilt of her chest and he used her to tumble forward. He scratched his ear on the ground from the roll, but he survived the fall, mostly unharmed.

"The elf!" one of them said, and they all turned around.

'That was stupid,' he cursed himself, seeing that it would take too long to pull his sword out of the woman he had slain. One of the warriors roared, and swung his heavy hammer at him, but it was slow and Fenris was able to leap back before his ribs were crushed. The warrior made another lunge, but lurched. An arrow was sticking out of the back of his neck. Fenris wasted no time to wrench the weapon out his dying hands just in time to parry another duel-wielding rogue who tried to sneak behind him. He swung at her, and she tried to parry, but the weight of his hammer broke her hands with several loud cracks. She screamed before she was hit by an arrow to her temple.

"Push him out of the range of the archers!" the Lieutenant cried. His men rallied, the heavy shielded warriors forced their way to the back to protect the group from the incoming arrows, but not before the last two rogues were slain.

They pushed Fenris down the narrow corridor, not giving him a lot of room to dodge, but they had no room to attack at once. Ting! Ting! Ting! The arrows bounced off metal like flies against glass. All the while the elf parried and dodged their blows.

They pushed him into the corner of what looked to be a residential area. There were stairs leading to the doorsteps of impoverished houses all around them. His body reacted automatically, years of fighting and instinct told him when to fall back and when to strike. Soon the sounds of arrows being flung against metal died out. Marco and his men must have run out of arrows and it didn't take the Lieutenant long to realize it.

"Do not give him an opening!" the Lieutenant commanded. The warriors were well-trained, but did not have the experience he did. Cornered, 6 against 1. Even odds if Fenris ever saw them, but he was tired and they had had the advantage of a good night's sleep and a full meal. If he was going to survive this, his mind needed to be sharp his strikes precise.

He waited.

Two of the soldiers struck at once. They were slow and clumsy compared to Fenris and he parried the incoming blows, driving the soldiers swords upwards. One of the slavers tripped onto his back and he grabbed the other by the throat and crushed his windpipe. Blood gushed down his gauntlet, and with a satisfied grin he tossed him back onto the other slavers. While he had a reprieve, he hammered the war mallet on top of the tripped soldier's head, splitting it open like a watermelon.

There was flash in the corner of his eye, and he barely ducked a sword that was whizzing towards his head. Without thinking he grabbed the slaver's wrist and snapped it, before he flung him to the wall behind him, head first. His neck made a sickening crack.

Three men were down in fifteen seconds. The last two soldiers backed away, looking for their lieutenant for support. "What are you waiting for?" His voice was shrill and filled with terror. "Attack him!"

Fenris' eyes were hard with cold fury and his lips were curled into a bloodthirsty snarl. He pointed his blood slick war mallet at them with one hand. "If you want your lives, you will flee."

They looked at the lieutenant one more time before they fled down the alley. Suddenly, the both lurched and tumbled mid-run, arrows embedded in their necks. 'So Marco still had a few arrows after all,' Fenris smiled malevolently.

"Wait," the Lieutenant begged and dropped his sword. He raised his hands in surrender. "You can't-"

Fenris took a step towards him, and he began to flee down the alley towards the alienage. Fenris dropped the war mallet and gave chase. It didn't take long for him to overtake the lieutenant and he grabbed his shoulder, and slammed him against the wall. "Danarius? Is he here?" he growled. His other hand sung of the lyrium and the man stared at it, his eyes reflecting the blue light in fear.

"Y-yes," he managed to choke out. "P-please s-spare-"

"Where?" he snarled.

"I-I don't- I can't…" Fenris realized that he was choking the man and he loosened his grip so he could speak. "Captain C-Clemens has that information. W-will you let me live?"

Fenris grimaced. It was always the same. Show a slaver how fragile their life was and they became sniveling cowards. With that he shoved his hand into the Lieutenant's stomach and twisted. "Run back to your master," he commanded. The man coughed up blood, his hands trying to keep his insides from coming out. Whimpering, he stumbled towards the alienage. Fenris grinned, satisfied with the outcome. The sounds of battle from the alienage had already stopped as well and he could hear Hawke's voice, still alive and well. He backtracked to the alley and pulled his claymore out of the fallen rogue's body and sheathed it back into it's rightful place. It was time to meet this Hawke.

"I don't know who you think you are friend but you made a serious mistake coming here: Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing now!" Captain Clemens echoed off of the alienage wall.

"C-captain," Fenris watched the Lieutenant stumble out, holding his innards in place before he crumpled over and died. Fenris stepped over the Lieutenant's body with a murderous smirk on his face. He always had felt a twinge of sadistic delight being covered in slavers blood, and he imagined he must have looked quite intimidating to Captain Clemens. He did not look at him but walked past the Captain to witness all of the Tevinter slavers fallen by the hands of Hawke and her group. The whole alienage smelled of burnt bodies and the pavement was soaked with blood. Even the Vhenadahl tree had been splattered with blood. They had more than done their part.

"Your men are dead and your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can," he warned Captain Clemens.

"You're going nowhere slave," the Captain grabbed him by the shoulder, and with a deadly smile he called to the lyrium. He reached into his chest, relishing the feel of his pounding heart and crushed it.

"I am not a slave," he sneered as he let the Captain fall. He looked at the group who was carefully studying him and suddenly felt self-conscious. He must have looked like a monster to them. Perhaps it was unwise to reveal his power so early. "I apologize. When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters I had no idea they'd be so…numerous."

"Don't worry. We do this sort of thing often," Hawke said with a cock-sure smile. She didn't seem as wary of him as the others.

"Impressive," He couldn't argue with their efficiency. There didn't appear to suffer any serious wounds from the battle except perhaps a few scratches. Athenril was not exaggerating when she said that Hawke was a woman that could help him. "My name is Fenris. These men were imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property. Namely myself." He rolled his eyes upwards. "They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely."

"What a surprise. Everything Anso said was a lie." the woman mused. She leaned on her staff, seemingly relaxed. The blades were dripping with fresh blood.

"Not everything," Fenris put his hand up. "Your employer was simply not who you believed."

"Figures," Carver scoffed.

"Well, I'm Hawke," she pointed to herself with her thumb and then gestured to her companions. "Varric's my business partner, the guardswoman is my good friend Aveline, and this lout's my brother, Carver." Her brother frowned deeper at Hawke's remark, but he heard affection in her comments. She then sighed deeply a look of disappointment on her face. "Can't say I'm too surprised that it turned out like this. Anso's job did seem a little too easy.

Fenris suddenly felt shamed. He was surprised how reasonable she was in light of his lie. Her companions did not seemed to be taking it as well. "Perhaps the deception was unnecessary. If so, I am sorry. I've become too accustomed to hiding." He paused, breathing deeply. "If I may ask. What was in the chest? The one they kept in the house."

"Empty," she shrugged.

Fenris grimaced, trying to restrain his anger. He did not want to scare away what little help he had. After all, he should be used to disappointment by now. "I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so I had to know."

"You were expecting something else?" she tilted her head in interest.

"I was but I shouldn't have. It was bait and nothing more." He gritted his teeth, trying his best not to sound bitter. It was all foolish. He had tied himself to this place, but it wasn't for naught. They had done a thorough job of disposing the hunting party. For the first time tonight, he felt confident in his decision to trust the smuggling elf. He kneeled down, checking Captain's Clemens pockets, and he found a note. He could not read it, but he recognized Danarius' signature. "It's as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help."

"Charlotte, I don't think this is a good idea," Carver said touching Hawke's arm. "He led us into a trap. We can't trust him"

"If Anso asked you to divert the attention of a Tevinter ambush would you have done it?" Fenris pleaded. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to be present for the flanking charge, earn their respect with the battle, but nothing had gone according to plan. If Danarius was in the city he would not have much time and he would need the help of capable warriors like them to assist him.

Carver pursed his lips. "Would have liked to know what we were walking into."

"It's still a job, Carver. A paid job that we very much need." She turned her gaze to Fenris. "Correct?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Do this for me and I will find a way to repay you. I swear it."

"Well there you have it," she nudged Carver, who resumed scowling.

Fenris breathed a sigh of relief. "Danarius is staying at a mansion in Hightown. Meet me there as soon as you can. We must enter before morning." Then he turned and ran before they could get another word out of him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They reached Hightown, with little discussion on the subject, but the elf had given very vague directions and they found themselves scouring every corner of the street for signs of him.

"Are you sure about this," Carver grumbled. Aveline and Varric simultaneously rolled their eyes. He only seemed to initiate a conversation when it was to complain or start a fight.

"Not at all," Hawke flashed her brother a devilish grin which always made Carver scowl deepen. "But getting paid to kill slavers isn't so bad."

"Definitely a preferable turn of events from smuggling," Aveline agreed.

"If he's good for it," Carver continued. "He didn't look like he had a copper on him."

"Probably stole the coppers like we do," Varric chuckled. Aveline glared at the dwarf who then started to nonchalantly whistle.

They had turned down a third dead end and found the elf pacing by a wall of flower garlands. Hawke marveled at his strange spiked pauldrons and white hair. She had never seen either before. His skin was a warm taupe color only few shades lighter than her own and he possessed the most stunning green eyes she had ever seen, though she would keep that to herself for now. His lanky body moved in sharp, precise steps, and the way he slouched reminded Hawke more of a stalking predator than a person. He looked over his shoulder and straightened himself. "You're here?" It was a question not a statement.

Did he expect to her to leave? Hawke smiled and gestured around her as she said, "would've been here sooner if you'd been a little more specific. Lot of mansions in Hightown."

Fenris face reddened and he looked down as if he was embarrassed. "Ah, yes," he nodded. "I apologize. It seems I was a little eager."

"Not a problem," she chuckled. "But before we start this break-in-and-murder operation, I'd like to know what we should be expecting."

The elf's eyes seemed to harden at that and his face twisted into a pained grimace. "My former master is a magister of the Tevinter Imperium."

"Oh, is that all? Nothing to worry about then," Varric chuckled nervously.

He pointed to the house accusingly with a blood-stained gauntlet. "There he is a wealthy mage that wields great influence. Here, he is a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him."

"So, what's the worst that can happen?" Hawke shrugged. She had faced an ogre and lived. She couldn't imagine a man being more fearsome.

Fenris frowned and seemed bothered by her careless attitude. "I do not fear death but we should not be reckless."

They followed the elf into the house. Hawke was about to suggest that perhaps the front door would not be the best place for a break-in, but she bit her tongue. She was not leading this operation. As soon as they entered, she could tell something was wrong. It was an eerie silence and the house smelled of decay. There were a mess of crates on the right, but their contents smelled spoiled. The stonework on the ground was chipped and unfinished and the walls looked dingy and discolored. "If your master was living here, then he needs to hire better housekeepers."

Fenris only huffed in annoyance.

They moved to the next room and Hawke thought she saw movement in the shadows near the dead fireplace, but it was hard to tell. She squinted in the darkness and it moved again, too quickly to be human. Without thinking, she called fire to her fingertips to see that they were surrounded by six shades.

"Guard yourself," Aveline cried out, drawing her sword.

They let out a terrible unearthly cry and converged on them at once. One took a swipe at her, and she blocked it with her staff, but it was so strong. She called for ice and froze it in place while Carver came from behind her and cut in half. The shade screeched and disappeared back into the shadows. Two more shades flanked her and slashed her stomach and she cried out.

"Sister!" Carver cried out.

"I'm alright!" Hawke called back. She put her hand over her wound and commanded it to heal and felt the relief of it stitching back into place. Varric shot one before it could take another lunge at her and Aveline cried out bashing the other one with her shield before she cleaved it in two. 'Careless,' she cursed herself.

Hawke got up quickly, charging at another shade who Fenris was keeping occupied. She struck it with her staff and called out a controlled fire to consume the shade. It screeched before collapsing into itself.

Fenris glared at her, before turning his sword elsewhere, but the battle was done.

"Danarius," the elf called out with renewed irritation. "You cannot hide anymore."

But Carver was trembling in anger. "Demons," Carver sneered and pointed his sword at Fenris. "You never said we were dealing with a blood mage."

"I said he was a magister from the Tevinter Imperium. There are no other types of mages," he growled back, before he turned an accusing glare at Hawke.

"Demons fall just like everything else in this realm." Hawke hummed. "Careful, though. They bite." She called fire to her fingertips and forged ahead. The stench of burning shade was almost vomit-inducing and she was eager to get away from it.

They had fought and felled the shades from room to room, and she kept a constant fire at her fingertips. She did not want to make the same mistake of letting those shadows flank her again. Every room was upturned and other than the demons, there was no sign of life. Bottles were broken on the ground and fine paintings were cast carelessly aside. There was endless piles of broken pottery, mugs, statues and books that were ruined with disregard. As for the battle, Hawke tried to rely just on her staff to defeat the endless hordes of demons that they ran into, but they were much too strong. She had to resort to her ice and fire spells just to keep from succumbing to their force.

The elf seemed to be increasingly irritated when each room they had searched ended up empty. Soon enough they had reached the last room, but there was no one else. Fenris picked up a broken vase at his feet and flung it across the room. "Gone…I had hoped," he muttered and then looked upwards. For a second it looked to Charlotte that he was fighting tears and she was overcome with pity. "No. It doesn't matter any longer."

"Take whatever you wish. I need some air." He moved past the group, bumping Hawke's shoulder as he passed her and slammed the door behind him.

"Well that was a bloody waste of time," Carver muttered and started to rummage through the loot.

"I'm sure he's thinking the same," Hawke shrugged, but her mind was distracted by that tear that she swore that she saw. Was she the only one?

"Not a complete waste of time," Varric piped up. "Just found a couple of sovereigns and equipment in this chest." He threw a blue robe at Hawke's head and she grunted as she tore it off her head. She stuck out her tongue playfully before examining it. It was silk and reinforced with leather- much better than what she was wearing. She even thought it was a pretty color though it did reek of mold. She held it up to herself, and found it was much too large for her. She'd have to ask her mother to alter it before she'd be able to use it.

"Well this room is completely sacked," Aveline said shutting another chest. "Not much to be found."

"Let's go ahead and backtrack through the rooms separately before we meet our 'employer'," Hawke suggested as she put the robe into her side-pack.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fenris couldn't breathe. He barely made it out the door before frustrated tears stung his eyes. He punched the ground in frustration and tried to compose himself. 'Foolish,' he scolded himself. It was stupid to hope. Hadn't he known that before? Wasn't this that his wretched life had always showed him? He had risked his freedom on a stupid trinket and he had lost. He didn't even have Danarius' corpse to make up for it. And now he had owed his debt to a mage.

No, a witch. No wonder Hawke could take on a battalion of twenty-five men. No wonder she came such accolades. Hawke was a dangerous viper, one he knew that he should stay well away from. He considered taking the coin he had and fleeing this blasted city. There was still plenty of time. The hunters were dead, and there was no reason for him to keep his debt to Athenril. Maybe this time he would have enough of a head start. Maybe there was a place that Danarius could not reach. He began to take his leave but he forced himself to stop. It was a foolish wish. The only way that his master would stop hunting him if he tore out his throat himself. As strong as he was, he knew better than to be prideful. Danarius was one of the strongest magisters in Tevinter. He could not face that type of power alone.

And he had met someone that could.

Soon enough, the group came out of Danarius' mansion admiring the spoils of their take. The sight of Hawke unlocked a powerful rage that took all of his willpower to control. He glared at her, blocking her path. "It never ends. I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul and now I find myself in the company of even more mages." Hawke raised an eyebrow, but instead of anger on her face she seemed intrigued. This unnerved him. He was much more comfortable with fear as a response. "I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you were? Tell me, what manner of mage are you?"

"Funny way to say thank you. You have a problem with mages?" She carelessly twirled her staff, dodging the question with a grin. He wondered what she thought was so amusing.

"I have a problem with magic and those who are careless with it," Fenris growled. He kept his stance strong, and glared at her.

"If you have a problem with my sister you have a problem with me." Carver stepped forward and threw a protective arm over his sister, who looked shocked by his reaction.

Fenris turned his gaze from her in shame. He had found his tongue had run away with him again. It was risky, but they had proven to be powerful allies, but the thought of asking for a mage's help made him bitter. "I...imagine that I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize for nothing could be further than the truth. I did not find Danarius but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have as Anso promised. Should you find yourself in need of assistance I would gladly render it."

She took the sovereigns from him and raised a delicate eyebrow and her eyes curved upwards in a mischievous smile. "You didn't seem all that pleased with me earlier." Her voice was light and playful.

"You are not Danarius. Whether you are anything like them remains to be seen," he told her.

Carver scoffed and glared at his sister. "Do you even hear him? He's more likely to turn his sword on you than protect you. We don't need him."

"I'm inclined to agree, for once." Aveline said crossing her arms.

Fenris grimaced though they were probably right not to trust him. He didn't mean to come off as hostile, but he would not lie to them. He expected loyalty from the brother, but he was rather surprised that the guardswoman would protect her knowing what she was. Even the dwarf seemed to aiming his crossbow in warning. "I will only turn if she gives me reason, to."

"Care to define those conditions?" the guardswoman stepped forward but Fenris stood his ground.

"I will watch her closely. That's all I can promise," he said. This was all wrong. Perhaps, he wished to be sent away. He wasn't sure what good it would be to trust her. For some reason his comment made her chuckle.

She sheathed her staff and swept her bangs out of her face. "I'm working on gathering coin for a Deep Roads Expedition. I could always use another sword."

Fenris nodded, but Carver seemed less than pleased. "Sister," Carver said. "Are you sure about this?"

"Never am," Hawke grinned. "Besides if he kills me, you'll have a chance to avenge my death. Win, win, right?"

Her brother swore as she stuck an open palm out to him. "Looking forward to working with you, Fenris." He stared at it feeling like he should do something with it. "Normally you seal a deal with a handshake."

He reached for her hand awkwardly and flinched when she grabbed his gauntleted and shook it firmly. It was the first time he had let anyone else touch him in three years.


	4. The Long Road

Everything had gone wrong. That was usual. Hawke had thought she had gotten off easy trading a favor for the Deep Roads map, but in hindsight, maybe agreeing to free a mage from the Circle was not the best idea for an apostate in hiding. The meeting with Karl was a trap. Of course it was. She had a long night of being set up by a tranquil, ambushed by Templars, and she had befriended another man who just happened to glow blue. What was new? She thanked the Maker that she had the sense to leave Carver at home or she would have never heard the end of it.

She shuddered thinking of Karl again. Her father had told her stories about tranquils, but this was the first time she had ever seen one up close. It was worse than she had ever imagined. No laughter, no anger, nothing. Gone. It was one of Hawke's greatest fears as a child. She could not imagine just being nothing, to have her whole essence just ripped away and discarded. Hawke hoped that if she was ever captured and turned Tranquil that her husk would have enough sense to walk off a cliff. She'd rather die than be a shadow of herself.

Hawke yawned and stretched, trying to push out the terrible memory. She was a Hawke, so naturally she refused to let things like that get her down for long. Her whole body was still sore from the battle, and she was dog-tired. The sun was too bright, Lowtown smelled of a privy, and the bustling market of customers and shopkeeps noisily bartering was too grating for her ragged mind. It was now noon and she had been awake for a least 24 hours. She had spent the whole night hiding out with Anders in his clinic, too wary to go home just yet, but she had heard no word of any Templars. Perhaps they had no leads. After all, they hadn't exactly left witnesses.

She grimaced when she finally arrived at Gamlen's house. When they had arrived in Kirkwall, her uncle claimed it was a 'nice' place, but it was nothing more than a termite-ridden hovel that smelled of old cheese and spoiled porridge. Carver and Charlotte were sleeping on the floor right along side their mabari, Ramsay. Though to be fair, they at least claimed their own corner. She hated living like this, but she was so exhausted that found she was actually looking forward to laying on her straw-filled potato sack.

She sluggishly pushed the door open and dragged herself inside to see Carver and her mother already having a frantic conversation around their small dining room table, which was nothing more than a slice of wood nailed onto a barrel. At her presence, they simultaneously turned and stood up. Ramsay jumped over and barked excitedly, greeting her home, but Carver commanded in a booming voice, "in the bedroom!"

The mabari whimpered, ears back and tail between his legs, but he obeyed.

"Hey," she hummed trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes. "Sorry I was out-"

"Where were you?" Carver wasted no time to get into her face. She flinched as his spit flung onto her cheek and she made a show of wiping it off her face.

"I was on a job. You knew this." she said with a raised eyebrow, betraying nothing. Carver and Mother's face were both grave, full of fear. "Did I miss something?"

"Yes, Charlotte," Carver continued. He looked angry enough to hit her. "While you were off playing hero, we got a visit from one of your Templars."

"Popular today am I?" she tilted her head, determined not to show weakness. "They asked for me by name?

"They said it was a routine visit," her mother told her. Her light brown eyes were looking at her fidgeting hands, rubbed raw. It was a nervous trait they shared. "There were some murders in the Chantry last night so they claim they're just making inquisitions."

"Then I don't see why you two are ambushing me about this? They're probably asking everyone." She waved her hand and lazily stretched, dismissing it. She tried to head for her bedroom before they could ask more questions, but Carver grabbed her by the shoulder and stopped her. She glared at him and shrugged it off.

"Charlotte, they were murdered with magic," he growled, emphasizing the last word like he had said a slur.

"That doesn't mean-"

"Where were you?" he asked again.

Hawke stared at her brother. His dark eyes were burning his anger and his bent, beaky nose was rippled in a snarl. She bit her lip and looked away. She couldn't think of a lie that would satisfy either of them. "Carver, I got the maps-"

"You little-" Mother shot a glare at him before he could finish the insult and he quickly swallowed it down. "To hell with your blighted maps! What good will they do when your imprisoned in the Circle?"

"Well then I should probably start plotting a daring escape, then," she shrugged. She was much too tired to argue with any of them.

"Listen to your brother," her mother cried. There were tears in her eyes. Her mother knew how to wield guilt as effectively as any weapon. "You promised me that you wouldn't use your magic. You know how dangerous this is."

"I…" Charlotte paused. What could she say? "I won't insult your intelligence by saying I wasn't but believe me when I say I had no other choice."

"So you lied to me?" her mother accused.

Hawke bit her lip so hard it almost bled. "I didn't want you to worry."

Leandra collapsed back onto her chair at the dining room table and rubbed her forehead. "Maker's Breath, Charlotte."

Hawke was momentarily overcome with guilt, but she was frustrated at the same time. Her mother wanted them to buy back the estate, but she didn't want Carver or her to do the necessary work. If Hawke only chose jobs that appealed to her mother's sensibilities they would die in this hovel.

She sat across from her mother and took her hands into her own. "Mother, this is going to work. We have the will to the estate. We have the maps. Give a few more weeks and I'll have the coin to finance Bartrand's expedition. When I come back, we'll be so filthy, stinking rich that Templars will need to write out forms just to touch me with a 10-foot pole."

"When 'we' come back," Carver reminded her.

"Of course. I couldn't do this without you." Her mother flinched when she said that and refused to look in Hawke's eyes. "Mother, Carver, you both have very valid points, but I am doing this for all of us." Carver scoffed at that, but she ignored it. "If we do nothing, it's not a matter of if the Templars find me, it's when."

"Well I'm sure we'd all appreciate it if you didn't leave a trail right to us," Carver groused.

"You're right," she sighed excusing herself from the table with her hands up. She could placate her mother but she couldn't and wouldn't deal with Carver when he was in this mood.

"But you just got home! Charlotte!" her mother tried to grab her, but Carver put a hand on their mother's shoulder.

"Let her go. Running away from the problems she creates is all she's good at," he spat.

She flashed a fiery glare at Carver. "Go with your strengths, right?" and then slammed the door behind her.  
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Fenris paced the mansion, anxious about his decision to stay. The very first mission the witch called on him was to free a mage from the Circle to acquire access to maps from an abomination. 'I certainly know how to choose my allies," he thought bitterly. He didn't object during the mission. Well, he didn't object as much as he could have. He told himself to try to see this as a chance to observe his new employer and figure out what kind of person she was. What he had found was that Hawke was headstrong, arrogant, and had a peculiar sense of humor that she seemed incapable of turning off. Worst of all she had a completely naive view on her own magic.

Fenris understood evil, but he wasn't sure what to do with a fool.

He had heard no word from Athenril, though to be fair it had only been a couple of days since he had thrown himself to her mercy. There were only a few things that he had instructed them to do after his mission with Danarius was done, that she would arrange all contact between them and to not tell Hawke of her involvement. He found that curious, but he saw no reason to tell the mage.

Fenris attempted sleep, but it had been so long since he had a bed, he could only manage a few hours. It didn't help that the sheets smelled of mold and were full of holes. But it did feel good to be out of his armor. He had worn it for so long, it felt more like a second skin than a piece of equipment.

There was nothing to run from anymore, but he still felt like running. The house was too quiet and his thoughts too loud. He did find rustling in some of the walls of the house, but after inspection, he found it was just rats nesting. He was in no mood to deal with them at that moment. He'd work on it later just like he'd work on scrubbing out all of the demon blood and making the rest of the mansion livable. 'Later,' he promised himself. He sighed deeply at that thought. He had never had a later before.

So with nothing else to do, he paced from room to room, trying to arrange his chaotic thoughts.

A knock at the door interrupted him, and he reached for the hilt of his sword. He couldn't imagine who it could possibly be, but hunters didn't knock. He considered just waiting for whoever it was to simply go away.

"Fenris?" Hawke's voice called. "Do you still live here?"

He let go of his sword, and ran to the door. A job would distract him for awhile. He took a deep breath and turned the heavy door knob to see Hawke juggling an over sized bag. The mage still hadn't changed from yesterday and there were dark circles under eyes. Her hair was slightly unkempt, and it looked like some blood was still clumped in places of it. Behind her, there were a few noble onlookers who were whispering amongst themselves as they perched on their toes trying to take a better peek at them.

"Hawke?" He expected someone to accompany her after he had made his distaste of her clear.

"Oh, good," she tittered, pushing her own way inside. "Brought some food over. Where's the kitchen?"

The elf stared in disbelief. Fenris wasn't sure what to make of this mage and yet he told himself that he would try to keep an open mind at least. Foolish or no, she had fought off a whole battalion of soldiers and was going to brave down a magister. She seemed to have good intentions, but he knew very well that evil was always convinced of their own good intentions.

"Fenris, where's the kitchen?" Hawke asked again.

He had realized he had not answered her question. "It's through the hallway to the right," he muttered and before he could protest, she tottered off.

"It occurred to me that since you've given me all your coin you wouldn't have any money for shopping and that last job didn't exactly pay well," she prattled on as if she was addressing an old friend. Fenris had forgotten that he hadn't eaten since yesterday, and all he was able to afford was whatever slop they had served in that filthy tavern. What was it called? The Hanged Man. This hadn't bothered him since he rarely had daily meals.

"That's thoughtful," he murmured his thanks, but his voice was hard and unconvinced.

"'That's thoughtful,' he says to the suspicious mage. You remind me of my brother," she laughed brushing the dust off of the table with her sleeve before unloading the bags. She brought out a wheel of cheese, three apples, a small basket of eggs, some potatoes, an assortment of nuts as well as a few other things.

Fenris was confused about her intentions, but she was still attempting to be kind and he met it with anger. "I apologize. I meant thank you," Fenris said, but the words tasted bitter in his mouth even as his stomach knotted at the sight of real food.

"Well you should thank yourself. Technically you paid for this," Hawke chuckled. She looked around, frowning at the disarray in the kitchen. The sink was filled with black mold and the pots and pans hanging were caked with rust. Beautiful ebony wooded counters were now dusted with spider webs and dirt, and parts of it had rotted and collapsed on itself. There were ceramic fragments scattered at their feet and every step that Hawke took made a sharp crackle under her boots. Fenris had already cut his heel earlier trying to navigate the kitchen, and was carefully sweeping away shards with the side of his foot before he took each step.

Hawke shrugged as if she didn't notice and chattered on. "Wish I could afford some meat. The only time I get any is when I get the slop at the Hanged Man. I swear they make it with rats." She laughed some more at her little joke before heading to one of the cupboards in attempt to find a place for everything. She slid it open and yelped. Fire flashed from her fingertips as a rat scurried out squeaking in terror. It landed on the counter and scampered out of the kitchen to a convenient a hole in the wall.

She laughed nervously at Fenris' glare. "Believe it or not, this is still a better set-up than my Uncle's place," she joked.

But Fenris continued glaring, completely unamused. "Are you always this careless with your magic?"

"Only in public," she said sheepishly.

He slapped his hand on the table in warning, but he miscalculated his anger and his palm paid for it with a sharp sting. "Why are you here, mage?"

"Glad you asked," she said, unaffected by his outburst. "I have a debt that I need to repay, and I'm guessing that it'll be a little dangerous for a squishy mage like me. I could use another sword between me and any bandits." He was silent. After all this, she still trusted him to protect her? She either had no sense of self-preservation or was complete fool, though he wondered if those traits were mutually exclusive for her.

When he didn't answer right away, Hawke quickly added, "I'd ask Carver but he's being a little shit, today."

Fenris stiffened. He saw how Carver had protected her in battle as well as how he defended Hawke when she was confronted about her magic. She was lucky to have such a devoted brother. How casually she dismissed him. "I'll be ready in a moment," he said acidly.

"Eat if you haven't. I'm in no hurry."

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just give me a moment to dress and we can leave."  
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A fresh battle and bright sunshine woke up Hawke's sleepy nerves. The air was fresh with the smell of evergreens and dust. The mountain winds felt brisk on her exposed skin. She found it hard not to think about Lothering as they hiked. Carver, Bethany and she used to play in rolling hills similar to these. The slope they were climbing reminded her of one Carver pushed her down when she was 16; broke her good arm. In retaliation she had broken his good nose. They all rushed back to Lothering swearing at each other as they held their bleeding appendages. Bethany's diplomacy skills was sometimes the only thing that kept Carver and Charlotte from killing each other, but nothing had ever made them civil.

As they walked through the door, she remembered her mother's mortified face. She pinched both of their ears and roughly guided them to the dining room table, chiding them for their childishness and stupidity. When Bethany fetched their father, Hawke expected the same scolding about how she was not doing her job as the eldest, but he looked at them and laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes. Her mother yelled at her father, claiming that he was encouraging them. "Like oil and water," her father had described Carver and her. "They don't mix well but taste good in a salad." Hawke was forced to apologize for her part in the fight, but she couldn't help but feel pride every time she looked at Carver's nose. It never did set back right.

"Shit, Hawke, did I ever tell you that I hate nature," Varric's voice interrupted her daydreams.

"Really, I always thought that dwarves would be one with the earth," she teased. She had forgotten how much she missed being out of the city.

"You obviously haven't met many dwarves," Varric groused. He was desperately trying to scrape spider blood and dirt off of his new, shiny leather boots with a nearby rock, but it just seemed to smear it around. His boots would be stained green. "Next time you think of asking me along on these fun outdoorsy adventures- don't."

"Oh, but think of all the fun you'll miss," she teased which pulled a smile out of the dwarf's frown. Varric and her were becoming fast friends.

Finally after a long stretch of road, they came upon the echoes of what might have been a fortress. Large slabs of vertically sculpted rock jutted out of the ground. Perhaps it was once a wall or an arch. It was hard to tell. There were smooth stones strategically placed in the gravel, as if this road was once paved. Red flags waved along with the tops of the pine trees and as they got closer, she saw red-flagged landships in the distance. She had heard about the Dalish traveling among them, but she had never seen them before.

Hawke sighed in relief, she was finally here. She knew that she should have settled her debt as soon as she arrived in Kirkwall, but for one reason or another, she had never gotten around to it. Hawke feared that the Dalish had already moved on and she'd be stuck with the witch's amulet. She didn't want to figure out what would happen if she had crossed a witch of the wilds.

Two elven warriors blocked their path into the camp, and they drew their weapons flashing unwelcoming glares. "Turn back, shemlen. Your kind is not welcome here," the Dalish-man ordered, and pointed a slung arrow at Hawke's heart. He had black hair that was slicked back and hate in his elven green eyes. A female warrior with a blade and shield stood beside him. She had her dark hair slicked into a perfect ponytail and the prettiest shade of brown that Hawke had ever seen. 'Maybe they're siblings,' she thought, but then realized that the elves probably thought humans all looked similar as well.

Hawke held up her hands in feigned innocence. "Pardon?"

"It's the elven word for human." Fenris answered. He had his hand ready near the hilt of his blade, and glared defiantly at the Dalish elves. "Are you sure you owe a debt here?"

"Debt?" the Dalish-woman sheathed her sword. "She must be the one the Keeper spoke about."

"A shemlen?" he said incredulously, but only slightly loosened his arrow. "I was sure she'd be an elf."

"Yeah sorry about that, but I'm not expecting tea." Hawke forced out a chuckle but they seemed unamused with her remark. She groaned inwardly, but not all her jokes could be gems.

The male elf grumbled but finally lowered his bow. "Go in. But be warned. Our arrows are trained on you."

She mock-saluted and followed the warriors inside. The archer was not kidding. Any elf who possessed a bow had theirs readily aimed at Hawke and her group. Everyone else just stared with wary eyes. The only one with a calm expression was an elder elven woman with who stood attentively by the campfire. She had a soft look to her face, and her gaze was not hard like the rest of the clan. She held her gray hair in a neat but simple bun, and she had strange yellow tattoos that accentuated her skin. In her hands she had a strange bladed staff that Hawke had never seen before, but she could sense that there was magic coming from it.

"I take it you're the Keeper?" Not that Hawke had a clue what that even meant.

"Andaran atish'an, travelers. I am Marethari, Keeper of this clan," the woman smiled warmly at her. "You must be Hawke."

"I was told to bring you this amulet," Hawke dug it out of her coinpurse and dangled it in front of her like she was holding a dead animal by it's tail. It was a simple silver thing. In the middle appeared to be glass and a red liquid sloshed inside. Blood, she guessed, but it didn't seem to dry. Sometimes she'd stare at it and swore that there were eyes within it, staring back. The thought made her skin crawl. It was probably worth some coin, but Hawke felt great magic inside of it and didn't dare let it out of her grasp. For a second, she recalled how the pickpocket at the Merchant's Guild almost took off with it. Hawke never told Varric how grateful she was for catching that cutpurse.

"Let me look at you." The keeper ignored the amulet, and grabbed her chin with a sharp pinch of her nails. Her green eyes studied Hawke intently, and she twisted her head sideways and again. As she felt the Keepers hands on her face, Hawke could feel something stirring within her. Was this mage calling to her? Finally, with a satisfied sigh, the Keeper let her go. "There is a light in your heart, child. Asha'bellanar must have seen it as well."

Hawke chuckled nervously, feeling terribly awkward. "Oh well, that's nice. Um, here I am, like I promised. Let me just drop this off so I can get going. Nice meeting you and all." Hawke tried to hand over the amulet again but the elf held up her hand in refusal.

"I'm afraid it won't be that easy, child," the Keeper chuckled. "It is not yet ready. You must take the amulet on top of the mountain and perform a ritual, a right of the departed. Once you do that, return it to me, and your debt with Asha'bellanar will be fulfilled."

'Of course it would be something like this,' Hawke thought as she slipped the amulet back in her coinpurse.

"I thought you said this would be a quick trip," Varric grumbled.

"It still might be," she said sheepishly. "So, uh, how do I perform this ritual. I won't have to…sacrifice a goat or anything, will I?"

"Such strange ideas that you have of the Dalish," the Keeper said, raising her eyebrows. Hawke silently scolded herself. She had a natural knack of offending others. "You will take my First with you up the mountain. She will see that the ritual is done. And when that is complete, I must ask that you take her with you."

"Okay," Hawke agreed carefully. "Just seems a little odd."

"It is her wish and I must grant it. You'll find Merrill waiting for you on the trail just up the mountain. Dareth Shiral." The Keeper closed her eyes and then turned from them, effectively ending that conversation.

Hawke gnashed her teeth as they headed up the path. She was visibly irritated. The witch had told her it was simple, and she guessed it still was. Go up the mountain, perform a funeral, and run back down it to deliver a blood amulet to the elves that had pointy sticks aimed at them. Still, something about this whole place unnerved her. The sun didn't seem to reach this land, and the veil…it felt incredibly thin. Nothing good ever came from a thin veil.

Suddenly, Hawke heard something like a high-pitched whine. She looked back at her group who seemed unperturbed by the sound. "Don't you hear that?"

They stared blankly back at her. "I don't hear anything, Hawke," Aveline told her. Her friend's thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

Hawke shook her head and continued walking but the sound was getting louder with each step. Around the corner she saw a small body crouching down and a strange light coming out of the girl's hands. The elf looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened in alarm.

"Oh, I didn't hear," she quickly shoved something into her bag and brushed herself off nervously. The sound abruptly stopped, and Hawke stuck her finger in her ear, trying to get rid of the echo.

The First was a small elf, armored with light chain mail and a light, leather vest that matched the color of her moss green eyes. Her hair reminded Hawke of a little ebony crown and her fair skin that was etched with delicate swirling tattoos. "You must be the one the Keeper told me about. Aneth ara," the elf gave a nervous smile, but it soon twisted into a panic. "I'm so sorry. I didn't ask your name. Unless…it's not rude to ask a human their name is it?"

"Not usually," Aveline said with a kind smile.

"I'm Merrill, which you probably knew already. I'm rambling sorry," she cast her eyes down as she nervously fiddled with her staff.

"You'll have to work harder than that to offend me," Hawke chuckled, which made Fenris huff for some reason. She pointed to herself saying, "Name's Hawke. This here's my good friend Aveline-"

"Nice to meet you," Aveline bowed her head.

"This dwarf's my business partner Varric…" He responded with a polite bow.

"And Fenris…" Hawke paused not sure what to call Fenris and herself. He stared back at her, as if he wondered as well. "Let's just call him an acquaintance of mine."

Merrill mimicked a bow in return, and seemed to relax slightly. "Thank you. I'm afraid I'm not very experienced with people outside of my clan. Dalish mothers tell their children terrible stories about humans."

Hawke and Aveline shifted uncomfortably which seemed to cause Merrill to panic. "Not that they tell stories about you. Not bad ones anyway- not that you're not worthy of your own stories…I'll just shut up, now."

But Hawke and Varric laughed heartily which caused Merrill's cheeks to flame in a furious blush. "We should leave, immediately. Your task is for Asha'bellanar. It's not wise to make her wait," she said trying to change the subject.

"You know the witch who sent me here?" Hawke's interest peaked. Her own meeting with the witch was chaotic and brief, and she had spent countless moments thinking about it, wondering if there was any way that she could have avoided Bethany's outcome.

"No, not personally," Merrill's little black ties swayed as she shook her head. "My people tell stories of her though. You're very lucky. Most people who meet her wind up in tiny pieces hanging from a tree."

"Oh," she said exchanging an alarmed glance with Aveline. "Well then I'm glad she was in a good mood when she met me. Shall we?" She gestured for Merrill to escort them, and the elf nodded and anxiously took lead.  
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The path through the mountain was treacherous, guarded by spiders, demon shades, and shadow warriors, but Merrill was an expert spell-slinger which made forging through the caves a much faster process. Hawke had a feeling that the elf was in trouble with her clan, but she couldn't imagine why. She found her antics endearing and adorable, and she was obviously skilled. Hawke couldn't imagine why the Keeper would be so keen on getting rid of such an asset.

They exited the cave and Hawke was grateful to breathe in fresh air again. There was something about that cave that just smelled off. Up until now, she had only heard stories of the undead, but she witnessed firsthand how real they were. Aveline was nearly overwhelmed by that shadow warrior that ambushed them, but they ended that battle triumphantly and had finally reached the summit. Hawke now hoped for a swift end to this nightmare but that hope was quickly dashed as they came across a spirit barrier. "Well…," Hawke huffed. She turned to Merrill. "Is there a way around?"

"No need," Merrill responded. There was a distinct nervous edge to her voice. "I can open the way from here. One moment"

Merrill approached the barrier and pulled a knife out of her belt. She raised her hands, and Hawke noticed that her fair skin was mottled with cuts and bruises, some very fresh. The elf took a deep breath, and slit her palm. An inhuman amount of blood gushed out and she was suddenly surrounded by a red aura. It swirled around her for a moment and then crashed against the barrier. The rush of magic against magic blinded everyone momentarily, and the air cracked like thunder. When they were able to open their eyes again, the barrier was gone, and Merrill looked back at them like a guilty dog with it's tail between it's legs.

"Blood magic?" Fenris growled. His hand was gripping the hilt of his blade so hard that his knuckles were drained of color. "Foolish, very foolish."

Merrill looked alarmed and went back to blubbering. "Yes it was blood magic but I know what I'm doing. The spirit helped us didn't it?"

"Oh, yes. Demons are very helpful right up until they start using you as a puppet." Hawke put her hand on her forehead, feeling an exhaustion headache coming on. She was beginning to understand why the Keeper was so adamant about sending this sweet girl away.

"Well…yes, but that won't happen," Merrill dodged the question as she bandaged her cut with a cloth from her bag. She led Hawke inside, and her eyes seemed to be far off, as if she was recalling a sad memory. "We must be careful up ahead. Restless things prowl the heights. In the days of Arlathan, the elders came here to sleep. Uthenara, the endless dream they called it, but they don't sleep peacefully anymore."

This Uthenara was a graveyard, and Hawke wasn't sure how, but she could feel the bones of the dead beneath her feet. Stone structures were placed all around, and she could only guess they were gravestones. At each grave was a lantern lite by a blue flame. Hawke could sense an ancient magic keeping it alight. The grass that grew on the stone here seemed to have less life, less color than at the base of the mountain. Everything from the darkness in the sky to the way the rocks slid under her feet told Hawke that the living did not belong here. What had she agreed to?

"That's the altar up ahead," Merrill pointed, and that's exactly what it was- a slab of rock with a blue lantern, it's flame burning eternally. It was surrounded by more jutting rocks at the edge of a cliff. Hawke could only guess that there was once a building that stood there, but whether it fell to it's depths or something else had knocked it down, she could only guess.

As they reached the steps of the altar, Hawke felt a terrible rumble underneath her feet. She instinctively drew her staff. "And we're under attack," she muttered. "What a surprise."

Corpses punched their way out of the rock and heaved themselves upwards and a wind rushed from the mountains pushing everyone away from the altar. Hawke lost her footing and was slammed backwards into a gravestone. She cried out, and heard a sharp thwack by her ear. In the corner of her eye, an arrow had just missed her head, but had pinned some of her hair to the stone. The skeleton archer reloaded another arrow, but before it could draw another arrow she called ice to her fingertips and froze it in place soon enough for Aveline to shatter it.

Hawke scrambled back onto her feet, and tore out some hair in the process. She turned to see Varric pinned behind a grave by two more archers. Hawke called a fireball to her fingertips and shot it at the corpses. They crumpled to the floor burning, but were still struggling to get back up. Hawke was taken aback. "What does it take to kill these things," she asked loudly.

"The head," Merrill cried back. She demonstrated by shooting a bolt out of her staff into the forehead of a corpse. It's powdered brains puffed out of the back. "The spell's sustained there."

Not a moment later, two bolts were lodged into the burning corpses skulls and they slumped over. "Bianca can handle that," Varric said with a wink.

Varric, Merrill and Hawke banded together picking off the corpses from afar while Fenris and Aveline used their weapons and skills like human shields, but the shadow that was summoned was proving difficult. Just like before, it weaved in and out of Aveline's and Fenris' attacks. They would lunge and it would disappear only to appear behind them, attempting to exploit their exposed backs. Hawke eyed the shadow closely, trying to interrupt it's attacks when she could manage it, but she couldn't risk any bigger spells without hurting the others.

Suddenly they heard an unearthly cry that chilled their bones. The air swirled and everyone was knocked back again. A ghostly corpse clothed with tattered mage robes rose from the altar. Electricity jolted from his hands and his arms danced in a perfect, precise circle.

"Everyone, move! It's calling a tempest!" Hawke cried.

Aveline and Fenris struggled to flee from the corpse, but the spell pulled them back in. The shadow remained relentless and even as the spell distorted it's form, it lunged and parried, trying to find an opening. Fenris managed to break away, but Aveline had now become the focus of the shadow's attack. Hawke's heart pounded in her ears as the shadow swung it's sword to knock away Aveline's shield and then plunged it into her stomach.

"Aveline!" Hawke cried. She called fire to her fingertips and hit the shadow square in the chest. It shrieked before it liquefied and vanished, but it was too late. The tempest's slow dance was now a ferocious storm. The air sparked and crackled and Aveline cried out as the electricity licked her tender flesh.

Anger surged through Hawke and another fireball came crashing down, but this time not from her fingertips. Her arms, moved automatically reaching to the sky, and another sphere of fire crashed down on the corpse mage, interrupting the tempest. The fire called to her and she pulled it from the heavens again and again, and each time it landed, the horror screeched in pain. It's tattered robes whipped upwards as the flames consumed them and it's dry skin sizzled and cracked as loudly as the lightning had.

The heavens continued to swirl and fire rained down chaotically. The horror was nothing more than a pile of charred bones now, but Hawke was not in control anymore. Her friends fled from her to take cover behind gravestones as the fire roared and crashed. Hawke was dizzy from the heat, but she couldn't call it back. 'Stop,' Hawke pleaded to the fire. 'I don't need you anymore. Stop!'

Finally it released her, and she collapsed breathing heavily. Aveline's crumpled form lay before the altar and she scrambled to her, still on her hands and knees. The guardswoman had fainted from the pain, but her chest still moved and Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. Aveline's ribbon had come undone and her wild red hair clung loosely to her face. Some blood made a trail from her thin lips and parts of her skin were singed, but it didn't look like she took too much damage from the spell. Hawke placed her hand over her friend's stomach. 'Heal,' she commanded her fingers, and they lit up in response, knitting the flesh back together.

Aveline's eyes fluttered open and she coughed. "I'm disappointed in you," Hawke chuckled. She quickly wiped her face and swallowed down the incoming tears.

"Me, too," Aveline groaned and pushed herself upright. "Maker, I think I tore…everything."

"Well knowing my healing expertise, I might have fused your kidney to a rib or something," Hawke joked. "We should check in with Anders when we get back."

Merrill and Varric came out of hiding shortly after. Varying amounts of awe and fear were plastered on their faces, but Fenris' gaze was cold and wary. His eyes were dark with hate so intense that she thought she would melt under it.

"Shit, Hawke, I had no clue you could do that," Varric whistled at her work. He had taken out his journal, and was busy scratching notes with some graphite.

"Well believe me, I'm just as surprised as you are-"

"That was careless," Fenris growled and gestured to the scorched terrain. "Look at this, you had no control. You almost hit us several times."

Hawke shrugged sheepishly. "I admit the spell got away from me, but-"

"You could have killed us all!" His body was rigid and he looked like he was only a moment away from tearing her heart out, but Aveline projected herself upwards and put herself in between them. Her green eyes told a warning that words never could.

"Hawke saved my life, and probably yours as well." Her voice was hard, and she refused to tear her gaze away from Fenris' glower. It was the elf who lowered his eyes, but not before he muttered a Tevinter curse under his breath.

Satisfied, Aveline turned to Merrill who was nervously fidgeting with her bandage. "Now that that's over with, how do we complete this ritual?"

"Oh," Merrill nodded. "It's quite simple, really. Hawke needs to put the amulet in the eternal flame and I'll do the rest."

They formed a half-circle around the altar and Hawke placed the amulet in the flame as instructed, and stood back. Merrill stepped forward and placed her hand over the flame, but it didn't burn her bruised fingers. She closed her eyes and recited, "Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas." There was a light that flashed in Merrill's green eyes as she finished the prayer and then suddenly all sound stopped. A sharp crack of glass broke the unearthly silence and the blood inside the amulet bubbled out and pooled on the altar. Hawke thought she saw the blood piling on itself, taking form. The blue flame of the lantern flashed like the sun and ghostly dragon wings swirled around the altar. A being bathed in light rose from the blood of the amulet, and stepped down.

"Ah, and here we are," Flemeth crooned with a viper's grin.

Hawke's mouth gaped open, and Flemeth's yellow eyes seemed to glint in delight. She chortled a throaty laugh as if she was sharing a private joke with herself. She was dressed in the same skin-fitted red robe, studded with metal. Her sharp crown accentuated her face which somehow looked old and young at the same time. Her eyelids and lips were painted in the same dark red shade and her white hair was ribboned in four spikes that resembled the dragon she really was.

"Another witch!" Fenris went to draw his sword but Aveline put her arm in between them.

"Stay your blade. We know of this one," she told him.

"Andaran atish'an, Asha'bellanar," Merrill said with a deep bow, careful not to look into Flemeth's eyes.

The witch turned her gaze to Merrill, and pulled her thin lips in a wry smile. "One of the people. I see. So young and bright. Do you know who I am beyond the title?"

"I know only a little," Merrill replied, not daring to raise her eyes.

"Then stand. The people bend their knee too quickly." She turned to Hawke and raised a thin white eyebrow. "So refreshing to see someone who keeps their end of the bargain. I half expected my amulet to end up in a merchant's pocket."

"It's not like I didn't try," Hawke chuckled, but her laugh was weak and hoarse. "No one wanted to buy it- maybe because it had a witch inside."

"Just a piece, a small piece but it was all I needed," she raised a gauntleted hand and pinched her fingers together as if she was pulling out an invisible thread. Suddenly her eyes looked like she was seeing something far away. "A bit of security should the inevitable occur, and if I know my Morrigan, it already has."

"You are no simple witch," Fenris piped up. It looked like the elf had taken all the irritation he could and he was trembling visibly.

"Figure that out by yourself did you?" Flemeth turned her gaze to the elf and she flashed a cruel smile on her dark lips.

But if Fenris was afraid, he did not betray it. He stepped forward, keeping his hand on the hilt of his blade as he pointed in accusation. "I have seen powerful mages, spirits and abominations, and yet you are none of those things. What are you?"

She placed her hand on her chin, feigning deep thought. "Such a curious lad. The chains are broken but are you truly free?"

Fenris flinched at that. "You see a great deal."

She closed her eyes and when she opened them, they seemed to glow. Her hair and robes whipped in a wind that pulled from behind her as she declared, "I am a fly in the ointment, I am a whisper in the shadows, I am also an old, old woman," and suddenly the wind died down and she shrugged. "More than that you need not know."

The group didn't speak, and stared at Flemeth warily. As usual, it was Hawke who broke the silence, "So now that this little smuggling job is over, I take it you have plans." She had an uncharacteristic urgency in her voice that suggested she wanted this meeting to end quickly.

Flemeth smiled and closed her eyes. "Destiny awaits us both, dear girl. We have much to do. Before I go, a word of advice." She turned to the mountains. "We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment and when it comes do not hesitate to leap." She looked back, her gaze seemed to pierce Hawke. "It is only when you fall that you learn whether or not you can fly."

"Cheap advice from a dragon," Hawke grinned wryly which caused the witch to laugh.

"We all have our challenges," Flemeth smirked.

"Hawke, I have a feeling we'll regret this," Aveline said nervously nudging her.

For a moment, Flemeth's face actually looked pained. "Regret is something I know well. Take care not to cling to it, to hold it so close that it poisons your soul. When the time comes for your regrets, remember me." She turned to Merrill. "As for you child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut."

"Ma serannas, Asha'bellanar," Merrill closed her eyes and bowed deeply.

"Now the time has come for me to leave. You have my thanks," she caught Hawke's gaze again as she said, "and my sympathy." Her gauntleted hands shot out into claws, and sharp scales popped out of bolts of her red robes. The horns of her white hair turned dark and grew into terrible spikes as her hair disappeared into a now scaled head. Out of her shoulders popped real wings that threatened to push everyone off of their feet as she flapped. They all took several steps back as before she leapt off of the cliff and flew off into the distant mountains.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The amulet was finally delivered back to Marethari and they all hiked back into the city. Fenris eyed Hawke the whole way down with a renewed anger. He couldn't believe that Aveline and Varric could still talk and even joke with those mages after what they witnessed. Were they completely blind? Fenris had never seen such raw power come from an untrained mage, and if Hawke hadn't reigned in that spell, she would have torn that cliff right off the mountain. And on top of that, they were guiding a blood mage right into the very heart of Kirkwall. Aveline must not know the dangers of blood magic but Hawke had no excuse. He wondered why such power always seemed to fall into the hands of fools.

They finally arrived in the alienage, the only place Merrill would be qualified to stay. If Fenris hadn't taken claim to Danarius' old mansion, this would be where he'd be forced to live as well. Varric excused himself to speak to an elven leader; trying to work on a housing plan for Merrill. The blood mage was nervously fidgeting with her bandage while Aveline and Hawke were discussing something quietly amongst themselves. Fenris stood aside still glaring at the fire mage. He must have bore a hole in the back of her head with how much he was staring. He couldn't believe he had tied himself to this foolish witch, but Fenris was just as much of a fool for trusting her.

Hawke glanced over at him, and for a moment, their eyes met. She smiled mischievously and winked.

Fenris eyes widened in alarmed and he turned away blushing. What was she doing?

She left the conversation with Aveline and approached him. "The fight with my brother was over Templars."

"Pardon?" He wasn't sure why she was even bringing it up. The fight with her brother seemed completely irrelevant.

"You've been staring at me with the biggest scowl ever since I mentioned that Carver was being a shit. I'm sure you'd agree with him, though." She leaned on her staff as she talked to him, and tilted her head in interest.

"Are you claiming to be a mind reader, now?" he spat icily.

"Just chalk it up to one of my many magey powers," she teased, but he stiffened at her joke. So she chose to remain careless.

"You jest, but in the Imperium, mages use blood magic to rip thoughts out of one's mind," he glared at Merrill, making sure that their eyes met. She cowered at his gaze and turned away from him. "Survivors are rare."

"I guess just asking them has never crossed their minds," Hawke simply shrugged.

"They find it…inefficient," Fenris rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to think she would take his warning seriously. She would continue to play with dangers beyond her understanding. "And I wasn't wondering about that."

"Yes, you were," she hummed, picking a twig out of her hair before she met his eyes again. "Unless you were noticing how great my ass is."

Fenris coughed almost violently and his face turned beet red. "I was…not-"

"You can look," she flashed her usual cock-sure smile.

Fenris' face was burning but this time with anger. She had misinterpreted his gaze. There was no way in he could ever think of her in such a way. "I was 'staring' because I was wondering how you came into the debt of a dragon."

"Oh that," she hummed again. She bit her lip, seeming a bit disappointed.

"I'd love to know that as well," Varric chuckled as he approached them from behind. Aveline and Merrill followed him, his business with the elf in charge apparently done.

"Simple really," Hawke yawned and stretched lazily. "On our escape from Lothering we got trapped between some darkspawn and an ogre. Aveline, Carver and I managed to strike down the ogre, but we were still pinned down by a horde. A dragon flew out of the sky, charred them up, and I got stuck carrying her amulet."

"You're shitting me," Varric said, reaching for his journal again.

"Shit you not. Aveline can vouch for me," she nudged the guardswoman.

"As unbelievable as it sounds, it's true. Every word," Aveline winced at the nudge and clutched her stomach. Apparently she hadn't completely recovered from the wound.

Varric finished whatever he was writing and turned to Merrill. Her eyes were wide and flitted around the alienage like a spooked rabbit. The dwarf tapped her arm and pointed at a little shack in the corner where an elf-woman was selling her wares. "That's you right there. I've covered the first month, so you have a bit of time to look around for a job."

"Varric," Hawke grinned, "that's positively gentlemanly of you."

"What can I say?" the dwarf chuckled as he rubbed his neck. "I have a soft spots for strays."

Merrill took a couple shaky steps toward the shack and turned back towards them. "Elgar'nan," the little elf swore. For a moment it looked like she would cry. "This can't really be where the elves live."

"It is," Fenris spat icily.

"Oh don't mind him," she waved in dismissal. "Besides, it'll be fun working your way to the top…" She then frowned and scratched her head. "Ok, I lied. It won't be fun."

"Some adventurer I am. I've just started out and I'm already daunted," Merrill sniffed as she looked up to the sky. A few tears fell down her cheeks before she turned back to Hawke. "Will you visit me? I mean, not now, but maybe a bit later?"

Fenris gritted his teeth, hoping that Hawke would show some sense and tell her no, but unsurprisingly her lips turned into a kind smile. "Of course, but only because you used a you-kicked-my-puppy voice."

It shouldn't have surprised Fenris that she would show compassion for the most unworthy of individuals.

Merrill breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," she bowed slightly. "For everything. I won't forget this."


	5. Crook's Favor

Fenris' mind was so ragged, he was having a hard time finding the estate again. All of Hightown looked the same to him. He had roamed aimlessly for so long now that he had caught the eye of two conspicuous guardsmen who were now trailing 10 feet behind him. He could conceive how a solitary elf armed with a 5-foot Claymore stalking the streets could arouse suspicion, but it irritated him all the same. The nobles made no secret of hiding the fact that he was offending their delicate sensibilities. They made audible huffs and animated gasps as he passed. He guessed that he would spice up their daily gossip.

Kirkwall was a city of fools.

He made three wrong turns before he managed to find Danarius' estate, but he peered through the window to be sure. The last wrong turn he made landed him in the waiting room of the Comte de Launcet's mansion and he had a hard time coming up with a proper excuse to the doorman. He tried to explain that he was trying to find his Master's home and he had made a wrong turn, but he was flustered and stammered through the lie with flaming cheeks. The doorman was surprisingly kind and told him that he had missed his turn and sent him on his way. The tips of Fenris' ears were still burning when he walked through the door.

Witnessing an ancient witch bubble up from a magic amulet was more than the elf's tattered mind could handle and to rub the proverbial salt in his wounds, Hawke decided to add a blood mage to her list of allies. He wondered if she did it to spite him. It took all of Fenris' willpower to be as civil as he was. When they dropped off Merrill at the alienage he immediately excused himself with the first lie he could think of. He loathed the unguarded kindness that Hawke showed to that blood mage and the careless familiarity she carried with Flemeth. He wondered if she was being deliberately foolhardy. Whether Hawke had known it, the witch had warned that she was marked by destiny and it seemed intent on holding a knife to her throat. Fenris found himself amused at that thought. The mage would sooner sass her attacker than take any threat seriously. She was determined to kill herself.

He was absolutely famished and comforted himself with the thought of a proper meal waiting for him in the kitchen. Food and sleep was exactly what he needed to end this wretched day. He unbuckled his sword and carefully placed it by the door, and unhooked his chest plate, allowing it to clatter at his feet. Yawning, he scuffled to the kitchen, but his nose crinkled at the smell of spoiled egg. A family of rats squeaked in unison and fled off of the table and scampered back into their holes.

"No," he groaned and stumbled to the table. "No, no, no." The cheese had been nibbled on and all but a few nuts had been eaten. Egg yolk was smeared all over the table and the room reeked of it's decay. The potatoes were mostly untouched, but the apples… He picked them up, and grunted in frustration. Two of them had been eaten to the core and the last one had been thoroughly gnawed on. Only half of it was left, and the sweet flesh was already browning.

His diet as a slave consisted of a motley mixture of whatever was left over from Danarius' meals. The cooks mixed it all into an overcooked gruel since it was usually unfit to go into the dog's bowl. Every meal was texture-less and tasteless, which was probably a kindness in hindsight. Occasionally, Fenris ran into a mysterious lump but he knew better than to ask what it was that went into the dishes. Feasting seasons were a different tale. There was always a surplus of food stock in the kitchen and the cooks never wasted anything. He sampled leftover sweetmeats, though they were on the verge of spoiling, and pastry sweets, though they had long gone hard. His favorite treat, though, was apples.

Danarius expected all of his meals to be presented perfectly. A salad leaf out of place or a fingerprint left on a wine glass could result in lashings for all who worked in the kitchen. Inventory was taken every day and every crouton had to be accounted for. Hadriana was always all too eager to catch a thief, but the cooks had learned to be clever with their stock. Sometimes Antonia, the head chef, would 'accidentally' drop a few apples out of the barrel, knowing that the unsightly bruises would keep them from the Master's plate. Hadriana would sling curses about their ineptitude and left welts on whoever came too close, but it was a small price to pay for food that actually crunched and tasted like it was supposed to.

Fenris' mouth still watered at the sight of the half-eaten apple. He sighed and pulled a knife from his belt. "I've eaten worse," he muttered.

Gingerly, he peeled off the chew marks and sliced off a crescent piece. Closing his eyes in anticipation, he placed it on his tongue and breathed deeply. A blissful moan escaped his lips as he sucked the juice out of it's pores, savoring every drop. He had forgotten how sweet it tasted and his cheeks tingled at the tartness. When he drained the flesh dry, he'd chew and swallow it down. Then he would cut off another wedge and repeat.

It didn't take long till he was down to his last slice. Fenris held it captive on his tongue and refused to swallow even after it was drained of all it's flavor. In spite of the utter chaos that surrounded him, he found himself completely at peace. The clutter reminded him of the calm that came after the destruction of a great storm. He found a stillness in his mind that he hadn't felt before and he slumped forward onto the table and let himself drift away.

A heavy, thudding knock on the door jolted him awake. The smell of spoiled egg filled his nostrils. He choked down a gag as he wiped the slime from his face. His neck ached at the awkward angle he had fallen asleep at and he pushed himself upwards, cracking it back into place. The dried out apple slice had fallen from his mouth, and was now coated with slime. Maker, he was a mess.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Fenris gritted his teeth. If it was Hawke, he would kill her.

He ran to his bedroom and splashed some water in his face from the washbasin. He'd need to draw a fresh batch of water. After that, he rushed to the door and stubbed his toe on his chest plate along the way. It hit the door with a loud crash. "Venhedis!" he swore rubbing his foot.

His guest pounded the door with another impatient thump! Thump! Thump! He tore the door open, his eyebrows rippled to an exasperated snarl. "What do you want now?"

But it was not Hawke.

Athenril's face was pinched in confusion while her two bodyguards reached for their swords, ready to defend her. She waved them down with a finger. "Good. I was starting to think I'd have to break in," she said as she pushed her way inside. The rogue sauntered around the room as if she owned the place. She squinted her eyes, scrutinizing his home with a haughty affront. Fenris kept his posture rigid in a fragile attempt to keep a polite demeanor but his jaw clenched threatening to betray a scowl. "Nice place," Athenril said sarcastically.

Fenris gritted his teeth and bit back a curt reply. "There are better sitting accommodations in the study," he said carefully and bowed slightly. He gestured for her to follow him upstairs and tried to not think of himself as a slave as he led her.

She accompanied him to the study, but shoved past him again to sit herself behind the desk. Fenris was left with a wobbly, wooden chair that threatened to collapse under any stress. Athenril's human guards rooted themselves on either side of her. They were still clad in heavy chainmail armor, and he could not make out their faces through their helmets. He couldn't help but reminded of the Templar statues that loomed over the chantry. Just like those statues, they were placed there to remind him of her power.

With a delicate finger, she beckoned him to join her. He sat as far back as was allowed, and the chair shook and complained under his weight. Athenril was leaning into his lounge chair looking entirely at home. From the curve of her painted smile to the way she crossed her legs spoke of a goading dominance. Nothing good could fall from her lips. "I take it that you are adjusting well," Athenril began. She went to rest her hands on the desk, but pulled away when she found that it was still covered by a layer of dust and spider webs. Time cracked pages scattered off the desk with a flutter. There was an inversed filth imprint of her forearm left on the wood.

"I prefer you get to the point of your visit," Fenris told her. He crossed his arms, in no mood for more conniving women. He had already had his fill for the day.

Athenril held up her hands in agreement. "Good, I don't like wasting time." She cleared her throat and tucked a loose blond hair behind her ear. "There was a contact of mine who cheated me out of some merchandise. It took awhile, but I've track him down. Problem is he has powerful friends and my men can't get close enough."

"So you need me to go in and get it for you?" Fenris finished for her. He figured as much. "Just tell me when and where."

"You don't want more details?"

"Just what's necessary," he said curtly. His jaw hurt with how tightly he was clenching it.

"Efficient, I like that." Her eyes seemed to glint in delight and she flashed another venom dripped grin. "Marco tracked them down in the Undercity but it's a bit of a maze. I'm going to send him with you." She eyed the guard to the right for a bit and made a small sigh, as if she was worried about something. "I usually don't advocate for murder. It tends to be bad for business, but the goods are extremely valuable so use whatever force necessary to get them back."

"Understood," Fenris nodded. His back was pinching in this chair and he tried to shift his weight to get comfortable. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Athenril murmured, but she seemed to be talking more to herself than to him. Her green eyes focused on his again and she said, "Rumor is that Hawke's been desperate for work- trying to gather coin for that Deep Roads expedition. Any truth to that?"

Of course the thief had heard about that. Who hadn't? "I think her dwarf companion did mention something," Fenris said. He rubbed his chin absent-mindedly. "I helped her get maps from a Grey Warden." He wasn't sure why, but he had queasy feeling in his stomach telling Athenril. He wasn't expecting to be a spy, but he dismissed his uneasiness for hunger. It shouldn't matter what Athenril knew. He certainly wasn't loyal to Hawke.

The rogue squinted her eyes at him, focusing her gaze. "Does Hawke trust you?"

Fenris wondered about that as well. The mage certainly seemed to, but whether that was an act or not he just wasn't sure. She did seem to give trust a bit too easily. "It's a bit too early tell," he answered.

"Well you should get busy on that," Athenril told him. "I've been trying to weasel into that expedition for two weeks, but Bartrand is a son of a bitch. He won't have anything to do with 'my kind.'" She made an amusing scowl. Fenris wondered if that was a jab to her profession or to her race. "Anyways Hawke has a knack of doing the impossible and I don't want to miss out. I have a feeling this will be the dig of a lifetime."

Fenris nostrils flared as his face slipped back into his usual scowl. "I have a feeling that you don't want me to take no for an answer," he said coldly.

"Not an option I'm afraid, but it would be in your best interest to join her. I'll only take 70 percent for that job. That's a better offer than normal," Athenril smirked.

"Oh and what's normal?" he scoffed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This woman really was a snake, but at least his suspicions about her were confirmed.

"85," she answered. "But that's been standard for everyone." No wonder Hawke had been so keen on getting away from her.

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "And to think I'm doing this to escape slavery."

"Sorry, elf. Freedom comes at a high price," she shrugged with a smug grin. How he wanted to rip it off.

Fenris exhaled deeply and leaned back. The chair creaked as he shifted his weight. Ever since he had first agreed to Athenril's terms he had been plotting for a way to escape her. He was sure he could simply kill her and be done with it, but he liked to believe that he was a somewhat honorable man who fulfilled his agreements. Now Athenril had unwittingly gave him the key to his freedom. A faint smile touched his lips. "Actually, I think this is negotiable."

Athenril shook her head and laughed in disbelief. "Not a chance. I don't haggle on deals like this. With a payoff this big, this is fair."

It was his turn to smirk. "I'm not giving you a choice," he told her. "A lot of people believe that this expedition will be profitable. If you want my assistance, you'll agree to my terms."

She squinted her eyes and scowled. "What's stopping me from killing right now." She drew her dagger in a petty attempt to intimidate him.

The room flashed as he called the lyrium to every part of his body. The marking blazed through his clothes as if they weren't there. He relished in the panic reflected in her eyes. His joints burned, but the pain twisted his face into a more menacing glare. "A smart business woman like yourself won't walk away from an opportunity like this, but if you think you can kill me, you're welcome to try."

Her guards drew their swords at his threat, but she stopped them with a quick wave of her hand. Her lips were pursed in a fine thin line. "Fine. How much do you want?"

He recalled the lyrium, and he rubbed his wrists. The magic left a deep ache in his joints, but he refused to show his pain. "I want my freedom. I do this, my debt to you is paid."

"Not a chance," she growled, and jumped to her feet. The lounge chair thudded as she knocked it backwards.

He stared into Athenril's eyes and saw hesitation. "My freedom or I test your men," he threatened. His dark eyebrows knitted together in warning, his expression stone.

Athenril bit her lip, her will faltering. "90 percent."

Fenris tilted his head, but remained silent.

Her eyes flitted away from his, unable to keep his gaze. "Deal," she muttered, and gestured for her men to leave. "Don't mess this up."

Fenris smiled when he heard the slam of the front door. Perhaps it was a good day after all.  
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Bethany did not die right away.

After the ogre had fallen and the last darkspawn slain, Hawke and Carver ran to their sister. Mother was already hovered over her broken body, violently sobbing while Aveline and Wesley looked on, helplessly. Ramsay whimpered and yipped, licking her Bethany's hand as if trying to wake her. His nose burrowed into her palm, and he rubbed his ears against her, trying to get her to pet him.

Bethany's fingers twitched, but she couldn't move them. Hawke had never seen so much blood. Her stomach and chest had completely collapsed in on itself, and her bare ribs and innards poked out of her broken armor. Her beautiful sleek hair was now matted with mud. Her mouth was filled with blood, teeth saturated, and it overflowed down her cheeks and chin like an overfilled glass of wine. The blood in her mouth bubbled. She was still trying to choke out words as Mother clutched her hand. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, and her mouth gasped like a fish out of water. She was drowning.

"Heal her!" Mother commanded. She grabbed Hawke's hand and shoved it onto Bethany's tattered stomach. Her sister jerked in pain, which caused Hawke to shirk back. Her bare hand had pressed against organs instead of skin. She still remembered how warm she felt. Hawke would always have a hard time handling raw meat after that.

She was nowhere near as skilled of a healer as Father or Bethany had been. The most advanced wound she had ever healed was a broken bone in her own arm, and even that took a great deal of guidance from her father. This…where would she even start?

"Mother," Hawke began, but her mother didn't even hear her. She was cradling Bethany's head on her lap, and stroking her blood slicked cheek. Hawke remembered that Mother used to do the same for her when she was a child and had trouble sleeping. "You're ok," she kept repeating. "Your big sister will take care of you."

Hawke's mind felt like it had been dropped in a fast-moving river. Her thoughts were jumbled and disoriented, her heart cold. She felt like she should feel something- despair, anger, rage, but it didn't seem real."Mother…there's nothing I can do," Hawke managed to utter.

"She's still alive!" her Mother wailed. Her face was wet, streaked with blood, tears, and snot. " Heal her! What are you doing? You're not even trying, you lazy child!" She smacked Hawke's cheek, and Bethany's blood smeared across it. Ramsay barked but she didn't hear. Her cheek didn't even sting.

Hawke couldn't answer. Her lungs felt like they were locked in place. Why wasn't she trying? She loved Bethany more than she loved herself and now here she was, not even trying to save her. More than that, she couldn't bring herself to feel anything. Was she a monster?

"Mother, stop it," Carver said hoarsely. Tears ran down his blood-stained cheek. Hawke didn't understand. Why was she the only one not crying? "We have to move, or Bethany's death will have been for nothing."

"Don't say that. She's still breathing!" her mother barked. "Charlotte heal her!"

Hawke gritted her teeth but obeyed. Her hands glowed around her sisters stomach and she commanded her hand to heal. She stopped the bleeding, but not soon after Bethany began to convulse, splashing Hawke with blood.

"Bethany!" her mother cried. Hawke kept trying, knitting organs back into place and trying to cover it with skin, but as soon as she was done with one area, it would split open again. She tried again and again, but she could not regrow skin or replace organs.

Abruptly, Bethany went limp. Her eyes were unreactive, glazed over and doll-like. Hawke's hand stopped glowing and she slowly moved it away, watching the life leave her sister's eyes. It happened so fast. Just a moment ago, she was Bethany. Now she was a corpse. Silence.

Ramsay lifted his head and let out a heartbroken howl. Her mother weeped, stroking Bethany's face. She was still trying to rouse her. "Don't stop," her mother begged. "You can't stop."

"Mother, she's gone," Hawke said in a hollow voice. She swallowed hard, but tears still wouldn't come.

"You killed her," she continued to sob. The accusation rung in her ears. "How could you let your baby sister run out like that? How could you-"

Hawke flinched, instinctively wanting to defend herself, but she bit her tongue.

"I'm sorry…"

The tears from Bethany's death didn't come until hours later; when her family was safe in Gwaren, and the passage to Kirkwall had been secured. Mother was an inconsolable, blubbering mess. Carver cradled her as she clutched Bethany's scarf and amulet. Hawke had salvaged it from her corpse. It felt wrong to do so, but they had fled Lothering with just the clothes on their backs. If she hadn't taken them, they'd have nothing left of her.

Ramsay had buried his head into Mother's lap, whimpering and whining in a futile effort to comfort her. Hawke didn't know the first thing about consoling people. That had always been Mother and Bethany's job. So she left.

She wandered purposelessly for hours along the beach, just another lost soul amongst hundreds. There were so many refugees huddled together, begging and howling and haggling and praying. The clamor was more soothing than her thoughts, and she hid in the crowd, pretending that Bethany's voice was among them. She watched the water. Aside from than the ships, the sea was surprisingly calm. She found the constant push and pull of the waves reassuring. The sea did not know that the Blight had come.

Without thinking, she walked into the ocean until she was submerged to her shoulders. The water was like thousands of needles pushing into her skin and her teeth involuntarily chattered. For some strange reason she thought it would wake her up, but she was already awake. It still didn't seem real. The only thing that kept her grounded were the waves that occasionally slapped her face.

Despite being 3 years apart, Bethany and Hawke were constantly mistaken as twins and now she had the curse of seeing her sister every time she looked in the mirror. Hawke always wanted to leave Lothering, but she always thought it would be on her terms. She wanted to be an adventurer like her father, gather stories while she explored the splendors of Thedas. It was always Bethany who talked her out of it. She resented her little sister for always talking about her duty as eldest. "I'll only go for a few years," Hawke would insist. "The South Reach will always be here." But she was wrong. In just a few weeks, the Blight tainted their land with it's illness and swept what remained with a wave of darkspawn. It was gone. Bethany was gone. She wouldn't yell at her for her poorly timed jokes. She would not be there to mediate her fights with Carver. Hawke would never make her sister laugh again. Reality suddenly punched her in the gut.

She tasted salt. Hot tears poured out of Charlotte's eyes and she sobbed and sobbed until her lungs were hoarse. She was numb, shivering, but she continued to weep without tears. She wasn't strong enough to save Bethany. She kept playing the battle over and over in her mind, trying to figure out where she went wrong, but as she tormented herself, she could almost hear her father say, "Act on what you can, but do not dwell on you can't."

So with shallow, shaky breaths, she composed herself, and returned to her family as a Hawke.

Hawke's eyes burned. She had not realized that she was crying until she tasted salt again. Now here she was, trying to gather her courage outside of Anders' clinic. Hawke had not allowed herself to think about her escape from Lothering for a long time. It was too painful. She had bitten her cheek when she was lost in her thoughts and now it bled. The metallic taste of blood washed over her tongue. She looked around, but nobody was there, so she opened her mouth, and with a wave of her finger, healed the wound.

If only all wounds were so easy to heal.

Yesterday, she almost lost Aveline, but managed to heal her- or she had thought she did. Shortly after they dropped Merrill off, Aveline felt faint, her chest tight and her closed wound was swelling. Hawke brought her to Anders right away, and what he told her kept her up all night.

"You might have saved her life, but you closed off her veins in the process. Healing is more than stopping blood."

Hawke couldn't stop repeating Bethany's death in her mind. Her own efforts to save her sister had ensured her demise. Her mother was right when she said that she killed her. She meditated on this instead of sleeping.

Hawke entered the shanty. It still had the faint smell of a privy mixed with vomit, but it wasn't as strong as outside. She couldn't imagine that there was a worse place than Gamlen's but the clinic was truly awful. She wasn't sure what it was supposed to be before Anders had re-purposed it. Barrels and crates cluttered the corners and on top of them were many assortment of poultices and mixes. There were red tattered banners that lined on the walls and the ceiling. She guessed it was a nice splash of color from all the dead brown. She figured that was the reason Anders had not taken them down yet. Maybe it was once a place where Kirkwall had held it's soldiers. The mighty had fallen.

'No one here,' she thought as she looked around. 'Good.' There were a couple of beds that were nothing more than cloth tied to flimsy frames. She figured Anders slept in one, but she couldn't imagine that they would support a full-grown man. His operating table had been pushed to the side of the room. It was stained with blood and looked more like it belonged to a torture room rather than a healer's clinic. She knocked on the flimsy wall to announce her presence, but jumped when dust fell from the ceiling. Anders turned his head, eyes wide in alarm, but they softened when he saw that is was her. He seemed to be praying to an assortment of mismatched candles displayed on his desk. There was an envelope set up against them addressed 'Karl.'

"Hawke," Anders eyes squinted into a kind smile. He lowered his praying hands and clasped them in front of him.

"Hey," she greeted with a wave. She eyed the memorial as she approached. "How are you holding up?"

Anders smile became strained and he his eyes fell to his desk. "I'm holding…anyways."

Hawke bit her lip trying to think about her answer. In these situations, she had the tendency to say the wrong thing. She tried to imagine something her mother or Bethany would say. "He…must have been someone very special to you," she said dumbly.

"The love of my life actually," he murmured. His warm brown eyes were somewhere far away. Hawke had only spoken to Karl for those few moments when he came back from the Fade, but she should have seen how he looked at Anders. She tried to imagine what kind of man Karl was, but she knew better than to ask about those precious memories. She knew how closely she kept her own. "Back in Ferelden, we held a memorial like this for every mage that died either in the Harrowing or by their own hand. We did the same for those made tranquil. It seemed like we had a service at least once a month. I've witnessed too many to count." His voice took on a heated edge as he recalled the memories. "We wrote our goodbyes in letters. Of course respecting the dead would be too much to ask Templars. They would read through our envelopes and desecrate our memorials in the name of security."

Hawke scoffed, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. "I'm surprised they didn't find a kitten to kick while they're at it."

"I'm sure they did," Anders managed a small smile, but his face quickly turned serious again. "You were lucky to have escaped the Circle's fate. It's not an easy life."

"Guess I can't deny that," Hawke nodded. Maker, she was terrible at this. She sucked on the freshly closed wound on her cheek, searching her mind to try to find a more appropriate answer to tack on. "I'm just…I wish I knew what to say."

"No need," he shook his head. His eyebrows knitted together and he stared intently at the flames of the candles. "It was Karl's greatest fear to be turned tranquil, but… it's not your concern." Anders looked up at her and gave her a weak grin. "Besides, I know you're not here for conversation."

She squirmed, caught in her pretense. "That transparent, am I?" Hawke chuckled nervously. She averted his gaze, anxiously scratching the side of her head. "I'm sorry, if this is a bad time, I'll go."

"I'd rather keep busy. It'll take my mind off of things." He turned his head upwards to the ceiling and sighed before he looked back at her. This time his smile had warmth. "What do you need?"

She brushed her hair out of her eyes and bit her lip. How would she word this? "It's about what you said yesterday with Aveline…"

"Ah," Anders nodded in understanding. "A beginner's mistake. I'd be happy to train you if you'd like."

"I definitely could use all the help I can get," Hawke grinned, reassured by his kindness. "But I'm actually curious about something else. My father was a pretty good healer but he never went all shiny. Does that have to do with Justice?"

Anders smile vanished into a grimace. "Yes, actually," he said. "His assistance does greatly improve my curative abilities, but I'm afraid that won't be available to you."

"What?" Hawke tilted her head. "Why not?"

Anders chuckled at her pout. "No offense, Hawke, but I don't think a spirit would take to you."

"Why not?" she repeated. Hawke put a hand on hip and leaned forward. "I'm strong, competent, self-assured, have great hair-" She jabbed the air with a finger as she listed off her qualities which caused Anders to laugh.

"All good traits within themselves," Anders said. He put up his hands trying not to show that he meant no ill will. "But forming a bond with a benevolent spirit isn't like forming a contract with a demon. They won't help just because you offer yourself."

Hawke paced in a circle, trying to think of a plan. "Okay, so what do I have to do? Test of courage? A certain quota of good deeds to fill?"

"See," Anders pointed to her. "You're proving my point. A benevolent spirit will only attach themselves to those with pure hearts."

"I have that," Hawke said defiantly.

"Oh I'm sure you have good intentions, but you're charity seems to come with a price."

"I'm grossly underpaid, I assure you," Hawke joked, but Anders wasn't amused.

He scratched the stubble on his chin, his lips pulled thin in worry. "Even if I were to help you, it's a very dangerous ritual. You'll need to venture into the fade over the course of a few weeks to see if a spirit even deems you worthy. You'll be vulnerable to demonic possession while you search." He shook his head. "To even attempt it, I need a stockpile of pure lyrium dust to complete the spell. We just don't have it."

Hawke continued to pace the room and considered her options. She was aware that Anders eyes followed her, probably hoping that his warning would sway her, but she was determined. If she had the power of a spirit to aid her, she might have been able to save Bethany. She couldn't let this possibility go.

She stopped and turned to Anders, but was careful to avert her eyes. "Uh…what if I told you I knew where to get it," she said hesitantly.

"You know where to get a stockpile of lyrium?" Anders squinted skeptically.

"Well…no," she admitted with a shrug, and cleared her throat, "but I did meet a beautiful woman last night that might."

Anders grunted in frustration, rolling his eyes. "Alright, I'll humor you, Hawke." He wished he had never told her.


	6. The Fire in the Shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed that you shouldn't read this while eating.  
> Content warning for graphic scenes.  
> May be subjected to minor changes once my beta gets back to me but since I took so long getting it down.

Hawke betrayed Fenris for a fistful of coin. He fled without considering where he would go; no time to feel betrayed. He expected this from a woman like Hawke. His only surprise was that she had waited so long to cash in his bounty.

He tried to leave through the gateway of Hightown, but that exit had been blocked by slavers. He sprinted to Lowtown, hoping to escape into the chaos of Undercity. In all the commotion, he trapped himself in a dead-end alley. Now bows and blades barricaded his escape. He gripped the hilt of his claymore, his eyes darted around for an opening. How could he make such a sloppy mistake?

The slavers closed in on him, chains in their hands. He already felt the cold steel suffocating his wrists. No. He couldn’t allow it. They lunged at him, but he cut them down. Their warm blood sprayed his face, it’s familiar scent filled his nostrils. Teeth bared, he tried to tear through the blockade, but they pushed him back. His elbow hit brick wall, and he flinched. There was no room to fight.

A bright light blinded Fenris. He swung wildly, trying to keep his eyes open. He squinted, but the slavers were just shadows dispersing into a white void. They disappeared one by one, until a solitary figure remained.

Danarius.

The light faded away until it was just his master and him trapped in darkness. Danarius looked over him triumphantly; his eyes cold, dead, cruel. His twisted smile mimicked kindness, but Fenris knew the brutality that he hid shallowly beneath. His scarred hand reached out and caressed Fenris’ cheek, his voice crooning, “Still so feisty, my little wolf.”

Fenris could not recoil from his touch. His stomach dropped, visibly trembling. His fingers were too numb to grip his claymore and it clattered to the ground. He wanted to pick it up, to plunge his blade into Danarius’ heart, but his terror overwhelmed him. He was not a hunter; he was prey.

“Forgive me, Master,” he begged. He dropped to his knees, pressing his nose flat against the floor. His body quivered and his muscles tightened, bracing himself for the blow.

Fenris convulsed, the grip of Danarius’ blood magic stormed through him. He cried out, his own blood crushing him from within. Danarius’ malicious laugh echoed in his ears and he reached for him.

“You won’t escape me again.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He jerked up, tattoos aglow, a scream caught in his throat. The flimsy sheets tore under his balled fists and cold sweat ran down his back. Befuddled, he clawed the air, his vision blurred with tears. His chest constricted, and his heart threatened to gallop right out of his chest. He scanned the room seeing cobwebs and broken pots, but his muddled mind could not register it. It still fixated on Danarius’ wicked hands reaching for him.

He shirked back; hitting the headboard. His gasps came out in sputters, and he clutched his chest and his throat, trying to breathe. Panic flooded him his muscles locked and his lungs spasmed. His veins pulsed as the lyrium blazed through his body. He couldn’t call it back. He curled into himself, tearing at his hair as he fought for control of his mind. “I am free,” he hissed through his teeth. Even as his chest threatened to crush him, he wheezed out rattled breaths. “I am free… I am free…” He breathed in the mold of his blankets, focused on the chill that nipped his sweat-soaked skin, even relished the pain of the magic that burned his blood- anything to remind himself that it was just a dream. But his body still remembered and refused to listen to reason. For almost an hour he shuddered, but eventually his heart to slow to steady thud, and the room darkened again.

This was nothing new. His scars ran so deep not even sleep gave release. He feared that if he saw his master again that he would be too terrified to defy him. Fenris shook his head and cursed himself. He’d rather die than submit, but his doubts were still fresh and the ache of his panic lingered in his joints. He was sure once his master was dead, he would know what it was to sleep in peace.

The sun had not risen, so he took that opportunity to go to the town well and draw himself a bath. The chilled water grounded him and he gradually felt like himself. With an old cloth, he scrubbed his sore skin raw until every inch of his body was red. Still, he felt unclean.

Marco arrived when he was finishing the last bites of his breakfast, which was nothing more than rubbery cheese, overcooked eggs, and undercooked potatoes. His attempt to make an omelet and hash browns had failed miserably, but he still ate greedily. Fenris did not wait for the other elf to speak. He grabbed his claymore, leaving what remained for the rats.

There was silence between them as they weaved through the streets of Kirkwall. No prying questions, no attempt at witty banter, no half-hearted conversation. He was grateful for that. If Hawke was here, she’d fill every moment with a story or a joke. That woman did not like silence.

Fenris scolded himself for thinking about her. Hawke was not here. There was no reason for his thoughts to be plagued by her especially after his nightmare. It was not real, but still possible. He could not place trust in a sellsword.

No matter how far he traveled, the rich always needed somewhere to shove the dregs of society. In Kirkwall that was Darktown. The stench was so putrid, that he could smell it yards before they arrived. Fenris marched behind Marco, trying not to breathe too deeply. He actually preferred the mold in his blankets to the malodor elves, humans, and dwarves penned like barn animals. Even the dirt here felt unpleasantly moist under his calloused toes and he had hoped the wet spots that he was stepping in was just water.

Here, the poor couldn’t hide their depravity. Some of them huddled in gangs with sticks and clubs, hunting for a weak target. It only took one snarl for Fenris to show them that he would be more trouble than they wanted. But most of the beggars stayed slumped in their designated areas, too weary to raise their head. An elven man draped in brown rags made Fenris stop for a moment. His wrinkled cheeks were deflated, his eyes white and cloudy. Flies buzzed around his gaping mouth and many of his teeth looked knocked out. His left leg was missing from his tattered shorts. He hadn’t stirred since Fenris noticed him. A small elven child was folded into his lap. Her clothes were too big for her knobby joints and her malnourished belly was swollen like an overripe pimple. “Messere, have mercy,” her small voice cried. Their eyes met, her knotted fingers reached for him. Fenris looked away, pretending that he hadn’t noticed her. He couldn’t stare without seeing a reflection of himself.

Soon enough, Marco led him to a sewer entrance. It was only a small hole in the ground, very conspicuous. A small band of armed men were talking amongst themselves ten feet away. Fenris looked warily at the humans, but they hadn’t graced him with a glance. Nobody payed much attention to elves.

Marco grunted as he lifted the hatch. “You might want to hold your nose,” he told him as he eased himself down the hole.

Fenris couldn’t shake his paranoia and he looked over his shoulder at the refugees, but still they were too engrossed in conversation. He breathed in deeply before he leapt in after him. He stumbled with a splash, but caught himself on the edge of a slimy wall. He inhaled sharply, but immediately gagged. The floor was slick and his nostrils burned with the distinct smell of ammonia. Maker, his feet weren’t drenched in…Fenris suddenly wished he owned shoes.

“I told you,” Marco chuckled, but his laugh was strained. He drew his bow and gestured with his head to follow. The water came ankle-deep and was a sickly brownish-yellow color. There were piles of indistinguishable sludge that caked just above the water-line. Mushrooms and green slime embedded itself in the stone and bloated rats scattered from their feet. As he followed Marco through the tunnels, he tried to ignore how thick the water was, and how little slimy specks of sludge caressed his feet as he moved.

Marco navigated the darkness, and Fenris wondered how. Athenril was not lying when she said this place was a maze. All the tunnels looked similar, but the elf had memorized his steps like a dance. A few miles in, Fenris thought he heard noises. He tapped Marco, and listened. Again, there was the faint sound of feet splashing through sludge water and it was getting closer.

Smugglers. It had to be.

Fenris tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, but the tunnels played with the sound. In the corner of his eye, he saw the light of a lantern. They backtracked silently to a tunnel they passed. There was an echo of a conversation approaching.

Marco wordlessly loaded an arrow into his bow and pulled the string back tight. Fenris unbuckled his claymore and gripped his toes into the algae, grounding himself. And he waited.

The woman who turned the corner held a fire in her left hand. ‘A mage!’ White hot anger surged through him. The arrow whistled past her head and she turned towards them, now alert. Marco cursed the dark, and loaded another arrow while Fenris launched himself forward. He heaved his sword diagonally at the mage but she managed to block his blow before he cleaved her in half. She cried out as she hit the corner of the wall with a thud and slumped sideways into the water. The flame in her hand drowned in the water. Fenris raised his sword for the finishing blow, but he hesitated. He knew that voice.

“Hawke!”

The tunnels flashed brightly and pain jolted through Fenris’ shoulder. He turned to see another mage rushing towards him, but it was too dark to see a face. A second bolt of lightning flew at him and he raised up his sword to block it. The tunnel illuminated for a moment and he saw him- the abomination. His claymore trembled and sparked as it absorbed the magic. Anders retracted his hand, his hands shimmering as he whispered another lightning spell. Fenris’ heart pounded in his ears. What were they doing here?

A copper-skinned woman catapulted past Fenris and swiped at Marco with one of her twin daggers. He parried the blow with the shaft of his bow, but she was as quick as a shadow. She circled around his back, and put a dagger to his throat.

“Wait!” Hawke’s cry interrupted Anders’ spell and stayed the rogue-woman’s hands. They turned to her, both with questioning looks on their faces.

“By the Creators, Hawke, are you alright?” Merrill cooed and offered her a hand.

“Always,” Hawke chuckled, but she winced as Merrill pulled her up. When she rose to her feet, she was still unsteady. The blood mage allowed her to lean on her small frame for support.

Hawke traded her plain leather armor for a rich cerulean Tevinter robe, though half of it was now drenched in sewer water. The sleeves the inner hem were lined with wet wolf fur. Yellow thread drew lines down the dress. It was meant to draw attention to buxom mages, but it skimmed right over her flat chest. Fenris held his breath, disturbed by the intrusive thought. He tried to look down only to notice that her thick brown belt accentuated rather generous thighs.

‘You can look,’ he recollected her lilting taunt, and his face flamed. How could he think of her like that?

Anders forgot Fenris and rushed towards Hawke. “You are hurt,” he said. He set aside his staff and called healing lights to his hands. The blue glow lit up her contorted face. A steady stream of blood flowed from her right eyebrow. She cursed as it stung her eye and she wiped it away with her sleeve. She was having difficulty moving her right arm and she cradled it, but she appeared fine otherwise.

Fenris felt shame, cursing himself with carelessness. He had only been seconds away from killing her. Maker, she was lucky.

“My apologies,” Fenris bowed his head slightly. “I had no idea you’d be here.”

“Convenient,” Hawke clucked her tongue as Anders’ light moved over her body.

“And stupid,” Anders agreed, giving him a quick glare. “Do you even look before you swing or are you just a rabid dog- biting at anything that moves?”

Fenris clenched his jaw. This was not his fault. “I already apologized,” he growled.

“This one free to go, Hawke?” the rogue-woman asked. If she was one of Hawke’s companions, Fenris had never seen her before. She wore a blue headscarf to hold back her dark hair, and her ears and neck were adorned with gaudy gold jewelry. She hugged Marco, one dagger poised to his throat in mid-slash, one at the side of his stomach. His bow jutted out awkwardly from his hand. Blood trickled down the left side of Marco’s neck where her knife stayed. He was breathing shallowly, pleading with Hawke with his eyes.

Hawke glared back. “Maybe,” she grunted. “Give me a moment.”

The tunnel darkened as Anders put one hand on Hawke’s shoulder and one hand on Hawke’s back. She winced away from his touch, but he held her firm. “Hold her steady, Merrill. This is going to hurt,” he muttered. With a quick jerk, a sickening crack echoed off the walls.

“Andraste’s asscheeks,” Hawke hissed through her teeth, but the lines of her grimace smoothed in relief.

“Sorry, Hawke,” Anders said. The abomination met Fenris’ eyes with another glare as he picked up his staff. A silent challenge.

Hawke rolled her shoulder a few times before plucking her staff from the water. She groaned, shaking the water off of it before she sheathed it safely on her back. With the flick of her wrist, she called a small fire to her fingers. Fenris squinted as he adjusted back to the light. She glanced at Marco again, an amused smirk twisted on her lips.

“Alright, I can’t wait to hear this one.”

Sweat beaded on Fenris’ upper lip, slick hands slid to the hilt of his blade. He wished for a clever lie to explain this, but the evidence was damning. He glanced at Marco, hoping that he would speak but he only gave a nervous twitch in the rogue-woman’s arms.

His jaw set as he readied for the flame in Hawke’s hand to be turned against him. “When I enlisted your help I omitted the fact that I got your name through Athenril. I am in her debt for a year.”

Fenris braced for a blow, but Hawke’s eyes turned upwards in a kind smile and she chuckled, breaking the tension. She brushed her dark bangs out of her eyes and said, “I see that her tactics haven’t changed.” She sighed, placing her right hand under her chin, thinking. Satisfied, she turned to Marco, “Let him go.”

The rogue raised a curious eyebrow, but nodded. Her quick fingers flipped her dagger twice, tauntingly, before she sheathed them back into place.

“Thank you,” Marco sighed, and put away his bow. He rubbed the wound on his neck, muttering to himself.

Anders gawked at Hawke in disbelief while Merrill cocked her head in confusion. She put a finger to her lips as she said, “I feel like I missed something.” So did Fenris.

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense, Hawke,” the woman harrumphed as she put a hand on her bare thigh. “Introduce me.” Fenris was unnerved by how provocatively the rogue-woman dressed.

“Where are my manners,” Hawke gave the rogue an uncomfortably warm smile. “This lovely creature is Isabela.”

“Charmed.” She bent forward in a mock-curtsy. Fenris noticed that the woman did not bother to wrap her heaving breasts, so he could see clean down her shirt. Fenris inhaled sharply before he averted his eyes.

“The elf in leather is Marco, an ex-contact that tried to assassinate my brother and me, unsuccessfully, of course.”

“Actually it was a mugging, but I won’t make that mistake again,” Marco added.

Hawke chuckled, before her eyes flicked back towards Isabela. “And the handsome one is Fenris.”

A nervous laugh burst up abruptly from his mouth. Fenris’ face and ears reddened in embarrassment and he quickly covered it up with a forced cough, but the damage was done. Fenris looked down at his toes, focusing on the algae colony that was squished underneath, feeling mortified.

Hawke and Isabela exchanged cheeky glances like they were trading secrets. “Oh, he blushes. How cute,” the pirate trilled like a tomcat. What was it with Kirkwall women?

Marco announced himself with an amused chuckle. “Well this isn’t exactly the best circumstances for a reunion, but why don’t we team up for old time’s sake.” Fenris raised a questioning eyebrow. They weren’t that desperate were they? But there was something else about Marco that seemed different. His eyes creased when he smiled, and his sharp elven features looked less severe.

Hawke raised her eyebrows suspiciously. “Up to your old tricks, Marco?”

“Don’t play coy, Hawke,” he crossed his arms, but he still had a good-natured smile on his face. “Let’s talk numbers. I’ll smooth it over with Athenril, later.”

“Do I not get a say in this?” Fenris said acidly.

Marco threw up his arms. “Hey if you want to challenge Hawke for the lyrium, be my guest. I won’t trade blows with her again.”

“Lyrium?” Fenris uttered the word, at first not understanding. His mind traveled back a few days ago when he coached Anso on questions Hawke might ask. “What do I say is in the chest?” the dwarf asked. The answer came easy. Lyrium made sense, was illegal, and extremely valuable. If the dwarf made the suggestion that lyrium was in the chest, a greedy sellsword like Hawke would take the risk, perhaps with the mind to sell the goods. But Fenris remembered how he flinched when he suggested it. Now here he was, with Athenril’s right hand, standing across Hawke, haggling over Anso’s lost lyrium shipment. It was one hell of a coincidence.

Fenris glared at Hawke, but decided against saying anything. Marco seemed to know what he was doing- for the moment.

Hawke was tilting her head haughtily, with her stupid cock-sure grin plastered on her face. The flame from her left hand cast the shadows upwards so it made her look more menacing than she really was. “You must be mistaken,” she said in an exaggerated too-sweet tone. “I’m not a smuggler anymore. Straight as an arrow, now.”

“More like a boomerang,” Marco scoffed. He closed the gap between them so they were standing inches apart, challenging her. “You know about Athenril’s missing lyrium shipment, or am I supposed to believe that you like the smell of shit and piss in the morning?”

“Well it sure looks just lovely on my new dress,” Hawke pinched the sewer stains in exasperation. “If you must know, I’m actually here on a…philanthropic mission on behalf of Aveline; cleaning the sewers for smugglers and whatnot. I’m afraid your lyrium is going to be processed as evidence. Sorry.” Merrill began to sputter noises in a failed attempt to speak but Hawke quickly silenced her with an uncharacteristically extreme glare.

Marco shook his head. “I heard that Aveline was moving up in Kirkwall, but I know you Hawke. You can’t resist a good heist.” He tried to sound firm, but his voice cracked slightly at the end. “We’ll clear out the smugglers together and split the lyrium down the middle. Aveline wouldn’t be the wiser.”

“She’s stern, not stupid,” Hawke rolled her eyes.

“But you’re so terribly clever. You’ll think of something,” Marco attempted to keep his voice light with teasing, but all Fenris heard was desperation.

Hawke bit her lip and glanced at Isabela who simply shrugged. She then peered into the fire in her hand. It danced in her dark eyes as she pursed her lips in a wavering pout. Finally she looked up at Marco. “You charmer,” she punched his arm playfully with her free hand. A little flattery was all it took?

“So we have an agreement?”

Hawke sighed deeply, her right fist turned into an open palm. “Last time I do this. Swear on the Maker.”

Marco grinned broadly, and shook her hand. “That’s not the last time you’ll say that.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were lost. Marco claimed he knew the way, Isabela said she had a map, but after hours of walking they weren’t any closer to the smuggler’s den. Both rogues blamed the messy encounter for getting them turned around, but it hardly mattered at that point. Everyone was cranky, sore, and nauseous from the fumes.

At hour three, Merrill started absentmindedly dragging her staff along the sewer wall, drawing a pattern reminiscent of a Dalish tattoo in the mossy sludge. As they walked, she found her pattern again and again, and she made it more intricate each time they passed. It wasn’t until they circled it a fourth time that Anders thought to say something. She simply said, “I thought it queer that my drawing was following me.”

But at least now they were getting somewhere, though they had no idea where ‘there’ was. At this point Hawke would have been grateful if she could just find an out, or even just a place to rest her legs. Her mana had run low, and Anders tried to pick up the slack by summoning just the tiny bit of electricity in his palms, but they might as well have been fumbling around in the dark. Her eyes were tired, strained. Her feet were blistered and waterlogged, even through her leather boots. The beautiful robe that Mother cleaned and fitted for her was all but ruined. She was going to burn it after this.

‘Just a bump in the road,’ Hawke thought.

But the road got bumpier. Now that they weren’t going around in circles, they started finding bodies. The air stank worse with the smell of decomposing flesh mixed with sewer water. Fat, black rats feasted on fresher, bloated bodies. When they disturbed them, they’d scatter, running across their feet. Hawke preferred skeletons.

Anders, Fenris and Isabela had taken point up ahead, trying to make sense of the tunnels. She was perfectly happy to let them bicker while she lagged behind with the two elves. She missed Marco’s company. He had a good sense of humor once he was comfortable and was pretty fair as far as thieves went. They had been good friends once, but that was all before that mess with the Orlesian wigs. She knew that Marco was fiercely loyal to Athenril, but his betrayal still hurt. The only thing that spared his life that night was their past friendship.

Still, Hawke was not one to hold grudges. It was nice to reminisce on old times and gossip, though not much had changed since she had left Athenril’s employ.

Hawke’s stomach growled loudly and she patted it with a groan. She figured she’d be back at home by now, butting heads with Carver over lunch. “I don’t suppose anyone has a snack,” she asked.

“Not unless you’re up for rat meat,” Marco answered with a stretch.

Merrill rummaged through her pack and handed her something crumbly bread wrapped in a soft cloth. “I’m afraid it’s not much,” she said.

Hawke didn’t mean to appear rude, but she sniffed it suspiciously, thinking it was strange elven food. It didn’t smell off so she tore off a piece and popped it into her mouth. It was nutty, filled with raisins and grain, though it was very dry. Now she wished for fresh water. “Hey, not bad,” she said taking another bite.

“I’m glad you like it,” Merrill blushed. “I bought it this morning right in the market. Nyssa recommended the merchant after I almost burned down my kitchen cooking breakfast. I was never a very good cook. Can you imagine? Just buying a simple thing like breakfast instead of a bow? It’s so exciting. Things are so different here.”

“You can still buy bows, Merrill,” Hawke smiled. She loved when the little elf rambled. She had a tendency to talk with her hands and sometimes she’d hit people with a stray word. Then she’d babble out a 5 minute apology. Hawke tried to say things plainly for Merrill. It was a shame to make her cry.

“Oh, I know, but humans are so strange. Dalish only sell things that take skill to craft. Everything else we do with our own hands. It’s lazy to do otherwise,” 

Merrill’s eyes widened with alarm and she quickly added, “not that humans are lazy. Not in general, I mean. Oh, dear, I’m sorry-.”

Hawke cough-laughed, flakes of bread flew out of her mouth. She forced herself to swallow before she said, “we are lazy, Merrill. It’s hard to insult me with the truth.” Merrill didn’t seem relieved.

“You’re Dalish?” Marco had ignored Merrill for the most part, but now he stared in great interest.

Merrill smiled broadly, happy that he noticed, but quickly frowned. “Aren’t you?” she cocked her head to the side curiously. “I mean, I don’t mean to pry, but you bear the vallaslin.”

Marco touched his face with a pained look on his eyes. “That was long time ago, 20 years at least. I bore a different name. Last I heard my clan left for Ferelden. I’ve often wondered how they fared.”

“I was in Ferelden until a few years ago,” Merrill did little half-skip, delighted to meet another of her kind. “Who was your keeper?”

“Feylhen.”

“Oh,” Merrill looked down suddenly. “I’m sorry, brother. He sleeps with our Ancestors now. Ilshae is the new keeper. Last time we had contact with her clan, she was leading them to the Arling of Amaranthine.”

“Ilshae was a friend,” Marco smiled. “I’m glad she’s doing well.”

“And here I always thought those were just decoration,” Hawke frowned, wiping crumbs from her face.

Marco smile quickly dropped and he said, “You know, Hawke, you were always-”

“Andraste’s knickerweasels,” Anders cry echoed ahead of them in the tunnel. At least two dozen rats came squeaking simultaneously down their path. Hawke shuddered in disgust as they ran over her boots, but stood perfectly still. She had already made the mistake of accidentally stomping on one. Merrill squealed beside her, kicking off a small, gray one that had scampered on her bare foot. The herd quickly splashed down the tunnels and back into the darkness.

Hawke, Merrill and Marco had only to walk a few feet before they saw the source of the rats. The man slumped on his side as if he had fallen asleep. Half of his face was buried in the water, and had begun to bloat. What was exposed was chewed off, his eyes and tongue eaten, and she could see parts of his skull popping out of his blond hair. His mage robes were ripped, intestines splayed out and staining the water around him. Hawke gagged, but she bit her hand, determined to hang on to her bread.

“Maker,” Isabela groaned with a wrinkled nose. “I didn’t even smell him.”

Anders looked to be in pain as he looked at the robes. Hawke quickly realized that the man was from the circle. “Someone should commend him to the Maker,” Anders said solemnly.

“We shouldn’t waste time on that,” Fenris grumbled.

Hawke said nothing but stared at the corpse. If the Deep Roads expedition did not profit like she planned, she would soon be wearing those robes. It could have easily been her lost in these tunnels, taking her chances on a glimmer of freedom, but then she remembered she was already lost. Perhaps this fate wasn’t too far behind.

On the man’s hip held a watertight leather bag. It appeared undamaged so Hawke knelt over him and carefully pried it off of his belt.

“Andraste’s tits, Hawke, that’s disgusting,” Isabela groaned.

“And here I thought we always looted bodies,” she teased. When she looked in the bag all it had was quill pen, a dried out ink, and a journal.

“Very useful,” Fenris snorted.

Hawke opened the journal flipping through the pages. They were cracked and barely legible. She scanned a bit, but it all looked like personal. She flipped to the very end, and there it was- a map of the Undercity sewers. It was highly detailed, with notes about key passageways as well as distinct marks where the man marked his trek. She tore the page out and handed it off to Isabela. “Here, compare that to your other map. We should be able to figure out where we strayed.”

Isabela bit her lip and pulled out a tattered page from the bosom of her corset and unfolded it. Hawke’s howls of laughter echoed far down into the tunnels. “You brought me into this maze with a map scribbled on a napkin?” She laughed harder so she wouldn’t cry.

“I can’t believe this!” Anders cried. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to show you,” Isabela pouted, glaring at Hawke as she giggled. “It’s a good map.”

Marco rolled his eyes and stretched out his hands. “Let me see that.” He held up the pages beside each other and squinted. “Hawke can I have more light.”

Hawke lightly hit her chest, trying to choke down her chortles. She was slightly disappointed that no one else was amused, but she usually laughed alone. She summoned a small fire to her fingertips and he lined up the pages next to each other.

“Here, that’s where the mage says we are,” Anders pointed. “And that means…”

“There,” Marco nudge the air with his chin. “Isabela’s napkin doesn’t go that far east, but they are the same here.” He shuffled the pages into one hand and traced where he meant with his fingers. “That’s only an hour backwards. We should be at the den in two.”

“Only an hour backwards, bah!” Fenris spat. “This mage here died with a map. How do we even know he marked it correctly?”

“Good point,” Hawke said thumbing through the entries. “Maybe it’ll say something in here.”

Before she could read anything Merrill said, “Wait!” She placed her hand on the journal, gently closing it. “That’s this man’s life. We can’t just trespass.”

Hawke frowned, the thought seemed absurd. “He’s dead, Merrill. He hardly cares now.”

“But still,” she said, her bottom lip jutting out, looking like she was about to cry. “It’s not right to him.”

Hawke was suddenly reminded of Bethany, how warm-hearted and loving she was, but she still shook her head. The will to live far outweighed any guilt she’d feel. Hawke flipped back to the first page. “I’ll only skim it. Maker’s truth.” She cleared her throat and read aloud;

_“Dear Frederick,_

_I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise. There was an accident on Old Man Barton’s farm. You must have heard by now. You know how his Misses always said he’d break his neck trying to fix that roof, well he finally done it. Not break his neck, I mean, but he fell right onto that rusty pitchfork that he’s too cheap to replace. That sour old miser. Marta screamed and cried, begging for me to get Connor, but I knew there wasn’t enough time. As nasty as Barton is, I just couldn’t let him die. I’m sorry, I broke my promise._

_Templars came for me in the night. They broke in and tore me right out of bed. I don’t want to accuse Barton, but I can’t think of anyone else who knew. Except for you. I know you wouldn’t do it. Sometimes I wish I let him die, but I’m not sure if I could live with myself. Blast this bleeding heart of mine, but isn’t that why you said you loved me?_

_I’m scared, Freddy. They’re taking me to Kirkwall as I write this, but I’ll write to you. I hope you get my letters. I hope they let me write letters. Please know that I’ll always love you, but you shouldn’t wait for me. I don’t think I’m getting out of this._

_Yours always,_

_Robert.”_

“Well that’s not what I wanted,” she said, lowly. She turned the pages, looking for another promising entry.

_“Frederick,_

_I’m sorry I won’t be there to meet you. It was kind of you to arrange for my escape, but it was a trap. By you? I dare not think of you like that. Maybe the Circle constructed the whole thing. I wouldn’t put it past them. I know I’ve mentioned how awful it was there but I believe that it deserves to be said again._

_I can’t say how I managed to slip the Templars. This ‘mage underground’ offered us the way out, but it sounded too good to be true. By us, I mean my good friends Jesyca and Antony. I’ve mentioned them before, haven’t I?_

_They said that we had to destroy our phylacteries if we wanted to escape for good, but we couldn’t get in the vault. I know mages only last weeks with their phylacteries intact, but I don’t need weeks. I just want to see you. At least I wanted to._

_I guess I won’t because I’m dying. I’m sorry, Freddy. I didn’t mean to. You wouldn’t like what I’ve had to become anyways. Jesyca and Antony surrendered peacefully but I just couldn’t go back. I’m sorry, I couldn’t. I ran to the sewers like we planned, but that Templar, Jacob, slashed me good in the stomach before I killed him. Maker’s Breath, I killed him. I know he took sick pleasure in beating us, but I’ve never killed anyone before._

_My stomach hurts so bad and I’m burning up. I healed it but I guess it got infected. I know you’re only a mile away, but I just can’t move. I don’t know how to fix it. Now I really wish I paid more attention in healing classes. The demons, they speak so loud here, but I’m holding on. Just barely, though. The thought of you is the only thing keeping me going. I don’t want to disappoint you. I keep thinking of the night we made love in the stable, the way you felt…”_ Hawke trailed off. “Maybe I’ll skip that part,” Hawke nervously said and scanned down to the bottom of the page.

“Aww, it was just getting good,” Isabela groaned, earning her some side-glances from the others.

_“Please, if anyone finds this, please deliver this to my parents back in Markham. Their names are Hammick and Melisa of the porters. If you address this to the Chantry there, they will know who you mean. Make sure they tell Frederick. Tell them I’m sorry and that ‘the winter must come to grow the sweetest crop.’ They’ll know what I mean.”_

Hawke closed the journal, feeling like she was 8 caught stealing sweets from the pot, except worse. She had desecrated his body without much thought. Merrill was right, she was a terrible person. She slipped the journal carefully into her own bag. “Well…he wasn’t lost so the map’s good, maybe…” she scratched the side of her head, guiltily. “I’m…gonna keep this, see if I can contact his family.” She bit her lip and looked down at the mage again. “Thank you for your help, Robert.”

“Idiocy. This would have never happened if he stayed where he belonged,” Fenris muttered.

“He didn’t belong there,” Anders said to Fenris with a glare. “Nobody does...”

Everyone except Fenris said silent prayers over Robert before they turned back.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fenris’ whole body ached. He groaned, trying to lift his heavy head. A high-pitched whine rung in his ears, and his temples throbbed. He squinted, straining to string together his thoughts, but everything was too bright and he groaned, closing his eyes. His clothes still smelled foul, but the air around was moist, warm, and earthy with faint traces of ale. He smacked his tongue, feeling thirsty and took a deep breath, his nostrils thankful. Again, he tried to open his eyes. He blinked hard, still seeing spots. Everything was fuzzy, the colors brown and dull, but he could make out the shapes of crates stacked into piles and bars. There was a hum coming from somewhere, but his ears were ringing too loud to figure out what it was. A conversation?

Still squinting, he strained to remember what happened. There was an ambush, at least 20 to 6. Being the only sword, he charged ahead, trying to draw the attackers. He was not worried. They had faced bigger numbers before and triumphed. But Hawke’s magic-

Fenris stiffened. That’s right, Hawke saw archers in the rafters and shot a fireball up towards them. He was too close. All he recalled after was a deafening crack and a blinding light and his consciousness slipped from him. The idiot! If she had destroyed all of the lyrium, she would pay with her life.

He shook his head, willing his senses to work with him. His back was cold, propped against a hard stone. He shifted slightly trying to assess the wounds on his body, but found that movement came easy. Other than a sweltering headache, no pain. He tried to pull his arms forward, but his wrists were tightly fastened behind his back. Bandages? No they were too heavy. Shackles…

Fenris’ heart froze.

“No!” he screamed and he thrashed his legs wildly, trying to wrench himself free. He barked out like a wild dog, yanking and pulling at the chains. They clinked against him, squeezing his raw wrists like a vise.

“Ow, ow, ow,” two voices cried out. Fenris’ vision sharpened. He was not alone. Isabela and Hawke were on either side of him, complaining loudly, as their arms were yanked awkwardly by the chain that linked them to Fenris.

“Quiet! We only need the elf alive,” a voice boomed. A blade slammed against the iron bars. Dirt flecked from the ceiling and dusted the guard’s dark hood. He was a dwarf with a long red beard that was separated into three thick braids. Dagger in hand, he glared at the group. Another dwarf snickered beside him, cloaked in a similar hood. His blond beard was woven in a single braid and fastened with a jewel.

All of the muscles in Fenris’ body clenched, trying to bite down his panic. The others gawked as Hawke and Isabela tried to pull him back towards the wall, but he didn’t budge. The red-headed dwarf sheathed his dagger and grunted. Satisfied, he turned around and continued the conversation with his partner.

Fenris breathed evenly through his nose. He had to ground himself in his surroundings or he would succumb to panic. His eyes darted around the room. Isabela was to his left, and Hawke and the others were to his right. They were all bound on a single chain, linking them together. It looped into an anchor bolted in the stone wall.

He couldn’t tell if the throb in his head was from his rushing heart or his splintering headache. His chest tensed and it was already difficult to breathe. He was slipping. “They know about me,” Fenris said breathlessly. Anger gave him a moment of clarity and he scowled at Hawke. “Why do they know about me?”

“This wasn’t a sell-out that backfired if that’s what you think,” she whispered back, rolling her dark liquid eyes. He noticed faint freckles stippled on her crinkling beaky nose. A notch was missing from her right eyebrow from their earlier confrontation. Strange. Focusing on tiny details of her face calmed him. “Apparently our lyrium smugglers peddle flesh on the side; hence the rather crude holding cell.” Hawke then wiggled her left arm in annoyance, pointing out that she was being held hostage by his pull.

“Perfect,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He tried to conceal his tremble as he scooted back in between Isabela and Hawke. ‘Too close,’ he thought again. He pulled his shoulders forward in attempt to avoid contact. He didn’t want to be touched, but there was no getting around it. ‘Breathe,’ he reminded himself.

“Believe it or not, those brands saved your life,” Isabela leaned over and murmured. She then gestured to their dwarf jailers with her chin. “Hawke convinced them to let Anders heal you since you're less valuable as a corpse.”

They had touched him with magic? Fenris resisted the urge to claw at his skin. He flashed another glare at Hawke. “Considering this is your fault, I think my gratitude would be misplaced,” he sneered.

“We could have left you bleeding in the dirt,” Anders voice muttered down the line. He could not see him past Hawke’s head, which he was grateful for. He was already having a hard enough time keeping calm.

“I am sorry,” Hawke shrugged sheepishly. “Lyrium’s explosive. Who knew?” Marco, Isabela and Fenris stared at her until she caved in an embarrassed pout. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

Fenris huffed loudly. Hawke really was an idiot.

“I said, quiet!” the red-headed dwarf boomed again. He hit the bar with his fist, causing Fenris’ heart to jolt, but did not turn from his conversation.

Fenris clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, but he was determined not to succumb to his panic. He focused on his knees, breathing in to the count of 4, holding for the count of 7, and out through his mouth until no air remained in his lungs. Repeat.

He scanned the room, trying to distract his frantic mind with a plot to escape. From a glance he could now tell that this must be an old Tevinter slaver den built before the fall of the Imperium. It was a cramped alcove, no more than the size of his bedroom. ‘Count to 4.’ The iron bars were rusty and would only need a kick or two to break through. ‘Hold to 7.’ The echo of raunchy laughter, drinking, and gambling yards away told him that they were unprofessional. Trained slavers would never keep a lazy eye on their merchandise.

He blew out to 8, but Fenris’ nerves were already calm. He knew he could escape them.

Hawke waited until the dwarves were completely enthralled in their conversation before she leaned over to Fenris and whispered, “I don’t suppose you can use that ghost trick on your cuffs.”

Fenris blinked, genuinely surprised that the idea had come from her. “I can phase through silverite plating with little effort. This shouldn’t be a problem,” Fenris said. He leaned backwards to hide the light and called the lyrium to his wrists, but it wasn’t responding. He frowned and tried again. No burn, no light, nothing.

“Fasta vass,” he swore. He could feel the panic creeping back up in his spine, but it was easier to push down.

Hawke’s eyebrows knitted together, seeing his worry. “I take it you aren’t pausing for dramatic effect?”

“These types of shackles are common in Tevinter. They’re imbued with runes that prevent spell-casting, and they interfere with my brands. Mages know how to shackle their own.”

“And there goes plan B,” Isabela sighed. The back of her head against the stone wall with a soft thud.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Merrill chirped.

The cage banged again and they all jumped. The red-headed dwarf, finally turned around, his face was almost as red as his hair. “This is your last warning! Next peep I hear, someone dies!

“You sure like to talk big for someone so small,” Hawke called back with her usual cock-sure grin. Fenris shot Hawke a warning glance, trying to silence her with his eyes, but if she noticed, she didn’t care. She had a haughty smirk plastered on her face and she tilted her head in open challenge.

The red-headed dwarf drew his dagger, and started fishing for the keys on his belt, but the blond dwarf reached for his hand. “Unsullied mage flesh’s 50 sovereigns to the right buyer. We can’t owe that much coin to Thalin.”

“She might be worth more if we cut her tongue out,” the other dwarf sneered, but he heeded his friend and sheathed his dagger.

“I’m hungry,” Hawke continued to whine. “Who can I call for service?”

“Just ignore her. We’ve talked about this,” the blond dwarf nudged his friend.

The red-headed dwarf snorted, but they continued their conversation without turning their backs. He glowered at Hawke in between his conversation, looking ready to tear out her throat. It was apparent that she had already done her own prodding while he was asleep. What was the blasted mage thinking?

“Damn,” Hawke sighed. “So close.”

“I’m afraid to ask what else you’ve tried other than antagonizing the guards,” Fenris murmured.

“Well plan A was to seduce them, but we’re having trouble on that front,” Hawke said.

“Still working on it,” Isabela frowned as she puffed up her supple chest. He quickly held his breath and focused on his dirt-caked toes.

“And we were counting on your phasing ability, but it turns out you’re impotent,” Anders grumbled.

A low growl ripped through Fenris’ throat, but he bit back a curt reply. There were more important things than nursing a bruised ego.

Hawke suddenly perked up, causing Fenris to flinch. “Hey, I have a hairpin. Can’t one of you rogues just stick it in wiggle it around?”

Isabela snickered but Marco rolled his eyes. “I keep telling you, Hawke, that only works in novels.”

“I’ve done it before,” Isabela argued. “Just takes the right touch.”

“I don’t care how keen your touch is, you won’t get far without the proper equipment,” Marco said.

“Shows how much you know about operating your equipment.” Isabela waggled her eyebrows. Marco’s face flamed but he argued no more.

Hawke leaned towards Isabela, contorting her body so the rogue could reach her. “What are you doing?” Fenris gasped. He gulped down a heated breath.

“Oh, hush. It’s just for a moment.” She tried pointing with her left shoulder. “Look, Isabela, it’s right behind my ear.” Her right elbow dug into his side and her breath tickled his neck. ‘Too close,’ he thought.

Isabela raised an eyebrow and smiled mischievously. He noticed that Marco and Anders were both peeking over each other trying to see. “How tempting,” she crooned. Isabela leaned over, her heaving chest grazing his stomach. ‘Much too close,’ he groused inwardly. The rogue dug her nose into Hawke’s hair, nuzzling her ear as she coaxed the little black pin out with her mouth. The mage giggled and writhed above him. “Quiet,” Isabela grunted playfully. “You gotta stop squirming. It keeps slipping out.”

“Hurry,” Hawke choked down a giggle in protest. “You’re tickling me.”

Fenris clenched his fists and diverted his attention to the ceiling. He muttered in Tevene, trying to ignore them.

“Sweet Maker,” Marco groaned, echoing Fenris’ thoughts.

“You, what are you doing?” The red-headed dwarf cried, pointing to them.

Hawke pulled away with a taunting smirk. “Plotting our escape right under your noses, of course.”

Fenris’ eyes bulged, frozen in disbelief. She was going to kill them all.

“That’s it,” the red-headed dwarf growled as he fumbled with the keys. He drew his dagger. Fenris’ heart jolted. It was not a threat.

“Wait, think about this-” the other dwarf followed closely behind him.

“I don’t care how much I owe Thalin. She dies here.” He closed the distance between them in a few bounds pulled her hair back so her thin throat was exposed. He poised his dagger, ready to slash her throat.

Hawke shot her leg upwards, landing a sharp kick right in the dwarf’s groin. He made a high-pitched squeak as he fell to his knees. She swiftly wrapped her ankles around the dwarf’s neck and yanked him forward. The dwarf pulled back, punching and biting, but she wrangled him between her muscled thighs and clamped down, crushing his neck. He flailed, pounding Hawke’s legs with his meaty fists, but she gritted her teeth, bearing through the pain.

“Gadel!” the blond dwarf cried, swinging his dagger at Hawke. Isabela jerked Fenris forward as she jutted out her leg, kicking his shin. The blond dwarf stumbled forward stabbing the red-headed dwarf in his spine. He convulsed, but soon went limp.

“No,” the blond dwarf sputtered.

The shock finally wore off Fenris and he swung his leg into the dwarf’s chest. He yelped, landing hard on his back. Isabela raised her leg and slammed her heel into his throat. The dwarf’s blue eyes bulged as spit flung from his mouth. He gasped like he was drowning. Isabela raised her leg once more and hammered down. A crack echoed off of the walls.

Silence fell among them as they listened for signs of reinforcements. The blond dwarf gurgled, trying to call out, but the laughter down the hall continued.

“Isabela,” Marco said, breaking their silence. “After this is over, I’d love to find out if you can actually pick a lock with a hairpin.”

“I’ll even show you how,” Isabela grinned.

Isabela fumbled with the keys for 5 minutes. The constant jingle jangle grated Fenris’ ears and it was exhausting to watch her contort her body in graceless positions…though she seemed to enjoy the audience. At one point when Isabela was tonguing for a different key, they fell down her corset. She asked Fenris to fish them out. Red-faced, he refused. That made her huffy. Finally she found the right key, and she released herself and then Fenris. He rubbed his sore wrists, grateful to be free. Quietly, he called lyrium to the tips of his fingers. The magic answered him with a faint blue glow.

While she was unlocking everyone else, Fenris scouted ahead. He discovered a small cache of weapons in a nearby crate, but it was a pitiful haul. Isabela grabbed daggers from the guard’s corpses. There was a bow for Marco, but only 5 arrows. There were no two-handed weapons, so Fenris was stuck with a longsword. As for the mages, not even a broomstick. Perfect.

The blade he took was a bit crudely designed, much too light, but at least it was sharp. He had not handled a one-handed weapon in a long time. He hoped he still remembered how.

Fenris peered down the hallway. There were maybe 12 guards left but his view was obscured. The majority of them were crowded around a large round table, throwing cards and coin in the middle while drinking large mugs of ale. Their weapons were sheathed, only a few axe-wielding warriors and dagger-wielding rogues. If there were any archers left he couldn’t tell.

He glanced back at the group to see Hawke testing the weight of another sword by rolling it with her wrist. Seeming satisfied, she moved past him and peeked into the hall studying the dwarves. “Oh this should be easy,” she said with a cock-sure grin. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’m going to go in first and freeze them with a cone of cold. Fenris, Isabela, I’m going to need you to be right behind me, ready to shatter. Anders, Merrill, Marco, I need your cover fire. If an archer hits me, I’m blaming you.” She began to move but paused, adding, “Oh, and no fire spells.”

Fenris reached out, trying to stop Hawke, but she dashed down the hall before he could protest her reckless plan. Isabela and the others followed her without thought. He chased after her, now behind.

The dwarves saw them charging down the hall, but most of them were too inebriated to retaliate right away. Some of them tried to get up and draw their weapons, but swayed as they stood. An archer shot off an arrow before anyone could stop him, but it was a sloppy shot. Hawke side-stepped it, and Anders halted the archer’s second arrow with a bolt of lightning to the face. Two warriors lunged for Hawke, but she slid her sword along the length of their blades, deflecting their attacks upwards before weaving between them. Isabela swooped in after her slashing their exposed mid-sections leaving Fenris to finish them off. He tried to concentrate on his battle but he was distracted by her grace. Much like a bird gliding on a warm breeze, she flitted out of the reach of their swings with a twirl and a taunting laugh. Her skills with a blade were rudimentary, but still he was confused. Where a mage learned to wield a sword, he didn’t know.

When she reached the thick of the group, she crouched, gathering ice to her fingertips. A dwarf rogue yelled in warning, and they converged on her. She spun, the ice plunged from her hand, freezing the ground at her feet. Her attackers stumbled and daggers of ice shot forward, encasing some dwarves in mid-stride, impaling others. Hawke missed one warrior, and she fell back as he swung at her with a heavy hammer. She parried when she should have dodged and he smacked the sword out of her hand, landing several feet away. Still she did not flee.

Hawke was going to get herself killed -again! Fenris bound forward, seizing her wrist and yanked her backwards out of the heavy swing of the hammer. A bolt of ice shot from her left hand as she fell and a spear of ice hit the cavern roof. He darted forward calling lyrium to his hands. He deflected another incoming blow with his sword and plunged his fist into the warrior’s chest. The dwarf coughed, spitting out blood as Fenris crushed his still-beating heart. In the same swing he flung him into the group frozen dwarves and they shattered into pieces like broken glass.

He looked around for his next opponent, but the fight was over.

“What were you thinking?” he sneered.

Hawke pulled herself to her feet, wincing as she rubbed her butt. “I’m thinking you stole my kill. Chalk that one for me.” She stuck out her tongue childishly as she sauntered off in search of the lyrium.

Unbelievable.

The group split off trying to salvage what they could from the hideout. Marco gathered the coin from the dwarves Wicked Grace game, and was busy splitting it into 6 piles. Isabela patted down the bodies, trying to find more coin off the corpses. Anders claimed he found useful research on the lyrium as well as receipts. He claimed it would be good to turn into Aveline. Merrill disappeared for awhile, but popped back in juggling armfuls of weapons. She fluttered to each person, returning staff, dagger, and bow but when she got to Fenris, she told him that his claymore was too heavy. He followed her to a room where the dwarves stored a large cask of ale. He was debating whether or not he should indulge in a drink when he heard his name.

“Fenris.” Re-buckling his claymore he peeked out of the room to see Hawke up in the rafters waving him over.

He dashed up the stairs to find her huddled over 4 uneven sized tables lined together. The dwarves had made a makeshift purification laboratory, complete with cloudy measuring cups and beakers. There was a strange-looking device connected with tubes. He had seen something similar in Danarius’ study. He hated that machine. He always thought that the tubes looked like intestines.

There were four cases of unprocessed red lyrium dust evenly stacked on top of each other. At a glance, Fenris counted at least a hundred vials. Danarius would envy such a stock. He couldn’t imagine how many sovereigns were just lying on the desk. Fenris could almost taste his freedom, but he hesitated. His hand automatically went for the hilt of his blade as he watched Hawke’s lips move. Her fingers traced over the notches, counting. He was almost certain that Hawke would turn on him rather than split the lyrium.

“Looks even,” she told him. She carefully picked up the top two cases and placed them in his arms before she gingerly picked up her take. “I say this is a win.” She was grinning ear to ear with success.

“Hey.” Marco ran up the stairs to meet them, waving a dead dwarf’s coinpurse. With a mischievous grin he dropped it on top of Hawke’s lyrium.

She fumbled with the cases, and pulled the drawstring open. Her mouth dropped and she stared at Marco. “5 whole sovereigns?”

“Each,” Marco grinned and placed another coinpurse on top of Fenris’ stack of lyrium.

“Maker’s Breath! Doing good does have it’s rewards,” she laughed giddily, and quickly pocketed the coin before the case slipped out of her arms.

“Well, Hawke, if you ever have that itch, you know Athenril has some jobs that could use someone of your skill.”

“When I said this was my last time, I meant it. Anyways give Athenril my regards,” she then turned to Fenris, smiling rather warmly. “And I guess I’ll see you around.”

Marco made a slight bow as Hawke rejoin the others. She was briskly walking back towards the tunnels, while Merrill poured over the vials, practically jumping for joy. “Oh thanks for bringing me along, Hawke. This is so exciting. I can’t wait to see the ritual.” Hawke stiffened, and shot a warning glare at Merrill, who clapped her hands over her mouth.

Fenris face turned hard, gawking at the mages. It only took a moment to realize that she was caught. He shoved the lyrium into Marco’s arms and bounded off the rafters. His feet stung as they slapped the cavern floor and he pointed his claymore at Hawke, cutting off their escape. “I shouldn’t be surprised that your mouth drips with lies. What are you planning, mage?”

Marco’s laugh could be heard echoing off the walls. “I knew it, Hawke. I just knew it.”

Anders pointed his staff at Fenris, ready to attack, but Hawke stared him down.

She looked at Fenris with a straight face. “Look, just take your half. We made a deal.”

“Made under false terms,” he growled. He didn’t even care if Athenril got what she wanted. He felt stupid for trusting her and he would not let her get away with it.

“Hey I held up my end of the bargain,” she cried. She cradled the lyrium like she was holding a baby. If he let her walk away with it, she’d not only have more than enough to fund her expedition, but she and her mage allies would be able to cast any spell conceivable. They could raze Kirkwall to the ground in a matter of minutes, completely unopposed.

He couldn’t take that chance. “Give me the vials or only one of us will be standing,” Fenris growled. He called the lyrium to every part of his body, and poised his sword to strike.

“Wait, wait, wait.” She took a step back, and for a moment Fenris thought she would run but it seems like she was muttering to herself. She sighed, slumping her shoulders and looked glumly at Anders. “One vial. Will that do?”

“More than enough,” Anders nodded carefully. His knuckles were white as they gripped his staff, ready to attack.

“You really think that you are in the position to be making demands?” Fenris jeered.

“Always,” Hawke grinned. “Look, I’d be willing to make a deal or trade a favor. Even write me an I.O.U.”

He gritted his teeth. One vial could still do a lot of harm. “What is this ritual?”

She chuckled as if he was not holding a blade against her. “Sorry, not part of the deal. And no, glowing all blue and intimidating me with that overcompensating blade’s not going to make me feel like sharing.”

Fenris’ nostrils flared. He wanted nothing more than to kill her and be done with it, but he was not sure he could afford to lose such a powerful ally. Did she see that, too? He lowered his sword. “I want a spot in that Deep Roads expedition and 30 percent of your share.”

Her eyes bulged and her mouth gaped open like she was punched in the stomach. Fenris almost laughed in spite of himself. “Nug shit!” Hawke scoffed. “That’s robbery. I’m funding my own coin into this expedition, you know.”

“Then give me all of it and walk away.”

Hawke closed her mouth with a sharp snap of her jaw, but her eyes looked more amused than angry. “5 percent,” she said insultingly.

“30.”

“10-”

“30.”

“15,” she said firmly, but had she tilted her head with a mischievous grin. “Kill me if you want, but you can’t make a copper from my corpse.”

He gritted his teeth, but like it or not, he did need her. “15,” he agreed. “Now hand it over.”

Hawke sighed again, and carefully handed it over, but not before she plucked one vial from the top case. “Sodding lousy deal,” she huffed, and tossed it to the abomination.

They turned to leave, Isabela berating her, Merrill apologizing, Anders glaring, and Hawke stretching carelessly as if nothing happened.

“Hawke,” Fenris called out. She turned back, and their eyes met. He felt strange looking directly at her, and he had an urge to look away, but he didn’t. “I’m not going to give you another chance to lie to me.”

She gave her signature cock-sure grin and winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	7. Dusty Dreams

Gamlen’s bathing room was nothing more than a closet with a glorified rust bucket. The wood always smelled wet, the soap looked unnaturally green, and the scrubbing brush was caked with crust. No wonder dear uncle reeked of old cabbage. Usually she bathed at the public bath house by the Hanged Man. They carried a decent honey oil perfume and not so self-conscious couples sneaking trysts in other tubs provided mild entertainment. Hawke liked to bring the latest romance novel and soak until the water went cold, but it only took one whiff from the Proprietress to be prodded out the door with a broomstick. Just her luck.

Hawke spent three hours scrubbing down her skin and wringing out her hair. She changed the water twice and wasted a whole bottle of perfume but she still smelt ammonia. Tired of pruning in murky water, she stepped out of the cramped tub. All the towels had been used, so her only choice was to drip-dry onto the un-swept floor. Gamlen would yell at her later, but damn him, the ale cask could be leaking gold and he’d complain that he had nothing to drink. Although that was not an exact metaphor. Hawke went out of her way to annoy her dear uncle.

“I’m going out,” Hawke announced as she left the bathing room, dressed in her freshly pressed leathers.

Mother turned from the hearth, eyes lined with worry. “Already?” She tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the black pot and set it on the stool. Hawke’s robes had been boiling since last night with Father’s old herb remedy, but surely it was a lost cause.

Hawke pretended not to hear her mother and went into her room to fetch her staff. She stumbled as Ramsay bounded into her, but quickly recovered against the door frame. The mabari yipped, nipping at her pant legs in a plea for her to stay. “I have to go, killer, but I promise we’ll play later,” Hawke chuckled and grabbed her staff.

She headed for the door, but Ramsay scurried around her, blocking her path. He whined pitifully, puppy eyes wide and pleading, but she saw the faint wiggle on the tip of his stout tail.

“Should have named you Rascal,” Hawke laughed as she scratched his ears. Happily, he groaned and rolled onto his back, earning a belly rub.

Mother approached, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Charlotte, you didn’t make it back until after midnight and you looked just awful-”

“And you still stink worse than the chamberpot,” Carver’s voice boomed from Gamlen’s bedroom. These walls were made of paper.

“Carver,” her mother called back in warning. She turned back to Hawke, rubbing her hands together. “Charlotte, you haven’t had a day off in weeks. Stay and help me with chores.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a day off, does it boy?” Hawke scratched Ramsay’s favorite spot and his leg thumped rhythmically. “At least the work I do makes coin.”

“Not everything is about coin,” Mother grumbled. Hawke suddenly felt a sharp pinch on her chin, and she was dragged to her feet. “What’s this?” Mother’s thumb ran over the fresh notch in Hawke’s eyebrow. “Carver didn’t give you this.”

“Looks good doesn’t it,” Hawke grinned.

“Stop it,” her mother said, pursing her lips. She released her chin and glared at Hawke. “You were doing something illegal last night, I know it. Did you use your magic?”

Hawke was careful not to look Mother in the eyes. “I told you, my friend needed a favor done. Nothing big. It just took longer than expected.” Nonchalantly, Hawke wiped her hands on her vest. Ramsay needed a bath.

“Who?” Carver asked as he came out of his room, squinting accusingly. “I asked that dwarf at the Hanged Man last night and he had no idea where you were.”

“Aww,” Hawke cooed, slinking up to him. “My baby brother does care.” She reached up, threatening to pinch his cheeks, but Carver swatted her away. “Well, fear not. I don’t need a keeper.”

Carver snorted. “You’re right, you need several.”

Hawke playfully punched her brother in her arm. “Just don’t guzzle away all my hard-earned coin. We already have a family drunk.”

“Charlotte Hawke!” Mother said sternly. Carver snickered, which earned an equally silencing glare. “We do not speak ill of family and we do not keep secrets.” Her mother crossed her arms, planting herself firmly between her two children. “Now I’ve given a lot of leeway for this dwarven expedition of yours, but the lying has to stop. You answer me right now. Are you in any trouble?”

Hawke bit her lip. How did one tell her overprotective mother that her eldest child spent all day trudging around in the sewers to be captured by the Carta, and almost sold into slavery because she needed an illegal vial of lyrium.

The easy answer was you didn’t.

“I can assure you everything is fine.” Hawke forced an awkward laugh, hoping that her mother couldn’t tell the difference. She retreated to the letter desk, and crawled under it. There was a false panel in the floorboards where Hawke kept all her funds for the Deep Roads expedition. She used to keep it under her pillow, but she caught Gamlen sneaking sovereigns out last week. Blasted man.

She plucked a coin out and pressed it into her mother’s palm before sliding the jar back into hiding.

“Maker’s Breath. This is a whole sovereign,” Mother cried, eyes wide in disbelief.

“I know,” Hawke grinned. “I’m already halfway to buying my share. Why don’t we celebrate with something nice- Oh, I know! Real beef for dinner; not any of that meat paste that the butcher scrapes from the floor.”

Ramsay barked in agreement.

Her mother frowned, but pocketed the sovereign. “Don’t think you can bribe me, missy.”

“I’d never dream of it,” Hawke chuckled, pecking her mother on the cheek. “Just a few more weeks, I promise. Imagine sweet meats every night and real feather beds with satin sheets.” She ducked for the exit before Mother could protest anymore.

“Stay out of trouble,” her mother said, wrinkling her skirt in her fists. Quickly she added, “and keep your little brother safe.”

Carver slammed the door behind them, shaking the whole hut. Hawke silently questioned him, but shrugged it off as she started for Darktown. He was in one of his moods; hunched over, kicking up dust as he dragged his feet. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he was muttering darkly to himself.

“Gamlen’s house is held together with mud. Be gentle,” she joked, trying to lighten his mood, but his scowl deepened.

“You think you’re so clever,” he groused. “You can fool Mother but you can’t fool me.”

‘So that’s what he’s on about,’ Hawke thought.

“It’s not about fooling. Dear Mother has enough stress as it is.” Hawke smirked at her brother. “But I am clever.”

Carver’s shoulders stiffened, and for a moment it looked like he’d argue. Instead he looked straight ahead and kept walking.

Carver never had a problem keeping secrets from Mother as long as he was in on them. He was probably steamed that he was left home the last few days, but yesterday... How did one even start that conversation? Hawke had every intention on telling her brother everything. She just wanted to be sure he couldn’t stop her.

As they weaved through crowds, Carver continued to mutter under his breath. Hawke sighed, knowing that he was trying out different arguments on his tongue before unleashing them on her. It was an unconscious habit that he had since he could talk. Hawke usually couldn’t resist teasing him for it, but today she was actually making an effort to be civil.

“You can’t keep this up forever, you know.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. This again. “I wouldn’t want to. Sounds exhausting.” And here she was hoping for creativity.

“Will you stop deflecting and actually talk to me?” Carver grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

She shrugged off his grip and crossed her arms. “Alright talk to me- or at me, rather.”

Carver gave an exasperated sigh and mirrored her. He liked attention, but hating making scenes, and now passing Kirkwallers were staring.

Lowly, he said, “Mother’s hardly been sleeping because she’s been so worried about what messes you’re sticking your nose in. And I’m not stupid, Charlotte. You’ve had me on every step of the way and all of a sudden it’s ‘you look tired. Here’s some coin. Why don’t you take a few days off?’”

“You do have some drool crusted on your face,” Hawke chuckled, and licked her thumb. She reached up to wipe it off, but Carver swatted her away.

“I’ll get it,” he grumbled, and he scratched his cheek self-consciously.

Hawke sighed deeply. Deflecting was just one of many bad habits she was trying to break. “Carver, I know some of the things we do are questionable at best, but I never lied to you.” Carver inhaled sharply at that and Hawke quickly added, “Okay not about anything important. Maker’s truth. I’ll even tell Mother if it’ll make you feel better and we can debate my depraved morales after we’re drowning in coin.”

She continued back towards Darktown, and Carver quickly stalked behind. “You think a little coin is going to make things better?” he was shaking his head, but it seemed like the edge of his anger was pacified.

“Well, it won’t make things worse,” Hawke said with a shrug. “I know I said you can come, but tell Mother, and I’ll have to do a dramatic reenactment of what you and Peaches did in Barlin’s barn.”

His eyes bulged comically. “I never- I don’t know what you’re on about-” Carver’s face flushed and he stammered so hard he couldn’t finish the sentence.

Hawke laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Glad we understand each other.”

Silently, she thanked the Maker that she had managed to side-step that fight; though she didn’t have a back-up plan if blackmail failed. Mother always lamented the fact that she rarely got along with Carver. They could hardly sit at the same table without flicking food at each other, but Hawke was curtailing her food-flinging, curse-slinging ways in an effort to repair their fractured relationship. She had better luck bailing a sinking ship with a teaspoon.

Hawke tried everything she could think of to piece her broken family back together, but she just wasn’t Bethany. Nothing made her mother smile, and everything set Carver off. Hawke was shit at dealing with people, but she knew how to put food on the table, though that was getting harder to do every day out of Athenril’s employ. She had some offers from the Coterie, but Hawke was done stealing for scraps. The Deep Roads expedition meant more than a huge chunk of coin. It was security, safety, freedom, respect. Maybe it might be enough to buy her mother’s smile back.

But now 15 percent was going directly to elven mage hater. Hawke cursed under her breath, causing a passing Sister to take offense. She curtly apologized to the woman before moving on. Fenris had been on her mind more than she cared to admit. That man made her so mad that she could hardly think straight in his presence. Or maybe it was because his gaze was so intense she felt like she would crumble beneath it…or how his voice like naked skin on velvet. Hawke bit her lip, containing a shiver. The Chantry Sisters should recruit him as one of those criers on the corner. That man could recite the chant and Hawke would faithfully listen every Sunday. Hell, she’d even line up for salvation as long as he was making her scream for the Maker.

Hawke nervously glanced at her brother, but he was blissfully unaware of her intrusive thought. It was not even in the realm of remotely possible. Even if she could get over his wild wolf temperament, she was pretty sure that he preferred the company of dust mites. On top of that, he had that whole ‘mages are the bane of society’ thing, which was a complaint she was used to hearing from people, but still a mood killer.

Carver didn’t need to know everything.

The Hawke siblings entered Anders’ clinic to find him attending a typical Darktown vagrant. He was an unkempt, moonshine-drenched man with a mud-caked beard. His face was coated with a healthy helping of dirt and his clothes were ill-fitted and chock-full of holes and patches. The man whimpered as Anders firmly gripped his arm, hands aglow. “You’ll be fine,” Anders said evenly, but Hawke wasn’t so sure. The man’s arm was bowed in three directions.

Carver wasn’t impressed. “Why do you keep finding men that glow blue?”

“It’s my favorite color.” She shot her brother a mischievous grin which caused him to snort in response.

The sound of Hawke’s voice broke Anders’ concentration, and he gave her a brief smile. “Ah, Hawke. Just a moment.”

“Thanks muchly, ser,” the man told Anders. “The missus would have my hide for sure if I lost my job at the mine.”

Hawke watched Anders in awe of him. She couldn’t say that helping others wasn’t her strong point. If anything, killing had become her trade. Sometimes, she felt no different than darkspawn. When their tattered faces haunted her dreams, it was easy to say they weren’t people. At least not anymore. But under Athenril’s wing, Hawke learned there was more to smuggling than carrying cargo through checkpoints. It meant reading people, to know which lie misdirected, or what bribe would pacify. It was finding people’s lines and knowing when to cross them. And of course, at times, it meant getting away with murder.

Athenril wanted to ease Hawke, Aveline, and Carver into their first week with a standard grab and dump operation. Hawke couldn’t remember what she was carrying, but she recalled being so nervous she kept bumping into Marco. The only other time she remembered being so uncoordinated was when Amanda Cartwright invited to her back to her bedroom after the Solace festival dance. A giant knot twisted Hawke’s stomach, but she couldn’t tell if it was because she didn’t know the first thing to lovemaking or that Mandy’s father despised her more than Ramsay hated fleas. In hindsight, she should have known that Mr. Cartwright would barge in, bellowing and red-faced, while she was face-deep in Mandy’s crotch.

There was no shame quite like explaining to her parents why she was crawling through the kitchen window, naked.

Hawke had a similar feeling strolling down Kirkwall’s docks. They reached the factory to drop off their payload when Coterie ambushed them. Her father had taught her a hundred different ways to kill a man, and she practiced those techniques hundreds of times on Carver, but before that night, killing was just a theory. Nothing could prepare her for the resistance flesh put up against her blade, or the reverberation of a broken bone, or the vomit-inducing reek of burnt flesh.

And how eerie one looked reflected in glassy, dead eyes. Hawke often wondered at what moment a person became a corpse. Where was that moment between life and death? Sometimes that question consumed her.

Anders gasped as the the blue glow faded from his body. The vagrant flexed his arm in amazement. There was no indication that it was ever broken. The man thanked Anders, shaking his hand before heading out the door. Hawke followed the man with her eyes, throughly impressed with the healer’s abilities. Anyone could take a life, but to give it back- that was true power.

Hawke wouldn’t lose anyone again.

“An’eth’ara!” A small elf popped in front of her.

She jumped back, so consumed by her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Merrill. “Hey…you. What are you doing here?”

Carver gawked at the little mage, who was on her toes, bouncing excitedly. He had met both Anders and Merrill briefly at the Hanged Man, and he was civil enough until Hawke said, ‘by the way, they’re mages.’

“Do you mind? I meant to ask permission this morning at your house, but somehow I ended up here. There are so many corners in Kirkwall and it doesn’t help that all human houses look the same…” Her green eyes widened in horror. “Not that your house isn’t nice. I mean, I haven’t seen it, but I’m sure it’s lovely.”

Hawke laughed in spite of herself. Gamlen’s hovel was barely a step up from Darktown shanties. “Dangerous detour, don’t you think?”

“You’re telling me,” Anders grumbled. “Found her asking for directions from some brutes down the street.” He looked around, displeased with the clutter around him and promptly started rearranging vials and beakers into something that resembled organization. “Give me a moment, Hawke.”

Merrill continued bouncing on her toes, inexplicably enthusiastic. “Such a funny phrase, ‘down the street.’”

“How so?” Carver asked. Strange, the usual hardness in his voice was absent.

“Well down is not a direction I can go unless I have a shovel.” Hawke and Carver exchanged amused glances which caused Merrill to sputter incoherently. She fumbled into her pocket and squished a wadded cloth into Hawke’s hand. “I wasn’t sure what a customary apology was for humans, but I hope it’ll do.”

A gift? What had she done to deserve that? Eagerly, she unwrapped it to find- “Bread.” To be specific it was the same bread that Merrill had given her yesterday. Hawke coughed, biting down a laugh as Carver eyed the elf, noticeably confused. “Thanks…I’ve already eaten but this will be a good snack for later.”

“I’m so relieved you like it,” Merrill nodded, positively beaming. “I’m so sorry, Hawke. I’m afraid I’m not very good at lying.”

“I didn’t notice,” Hawke chuckled.

“But didn’t Fen-” Merrill started, but stopped suddenly. “Right…sarcasm. I’ll get it one day.”

Carver cleared his throat, announcing his presence. “You can tell me what’s going on anytime now.”

Anders turned towards them, wiping herb-stained hands on his robe. Apparently he was done cleaning, but Hawke couldn’t see a difference. He stared at Carver warily. “I know he’s your brother but are you sure you want him here?”

Carver raised his eyebrows in alarm. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Thanks, Anders. That didn’t sound ominous at all.” Hawke gave her brother’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“If you think it’s best,” Anders said with a sigh. He led them to the back room, which was nothing more than a damp, dirt hole. Even though it was noon, they needed the light of several lanterns. In the center was a makeshift bed that Anders had dragged from the clinic. There was a large, elaborate spell book still open to the Fade potion. Apparently Anders had acquired it from his days at the Ferelden Circle.

A blue concoction glowed faintly on the table. The thrum of it’s power gave her goosebumps. Anders grabbed it and carefully stirred it into a goblet of water. “I need you to understand that this isn’t going to be like dreaming. You’ll have form and therefore you’re going to be vulnerable-”

“The Fade is very perilous. Everything will either try to trick me or eat me,” she finished for him. Anders had already explained most of this yesterday in the sewers. Hawke was only half-listening, but she had the gist of it. She already knew that being a mage meant that she didn’t dream like everyone else. She was conscious, which meant she knew the details of all of her dreams. Carver once asked if it was like always being awake, but she couldn’t say that it was. She was a ghost, walking through the Fade but not able to touch it.

“You’re joking,” Carver groaned as Hawke settled herself on the bed. “Seriously, why do you want to go to the Fade?”

Hawke hid a grimace. She promised to be honest, but his fixed stare was making that difficult. “Well-” she started, ready to spout another lie, but she bit it back. “When I wake up…I’ll be a spirit healer.”

Carver’s mouth gaped open. “Charlotte-”

“I’m doing this,” Hawke said firmly. “I’ll be fine. Just…believe in me.”

“Believe in you,” Carver cried in disbelief. “This is just another vanity project.”

Hawke flinched, but didn’t reply. She should have known that he wouldn’t understand and now they had aired their dirty laundry for an audience. At least Anders and Merrill had enough respect to look away.

She motioned for Anders to pass her the goblet. “Remain vigilant,” he said, handing it off. “Meditate on your virtues.”

“Cause I have virtues dripping out my ass,” she muttered darkly. She raised the goblet to her lips when Carver touched her shoulder.

He looked down at her, his face between a scowl and something that could be mistaken for concern. “Think of Mother,” he murmured. Hawke thought that there might have been more to that sentence, but that’s all he said.

She was thinking of Mother. Defiantly, Hawke knocked back the potion in one gulp. Violent coughs erupted from her. It tasted like bitter metal with a hint of blueberry. The lyrium burned coldly in her throat and soon she was paralyzed. Hawke swayed backwards, hitting the pillow, but she continued to fall. Darkness clouded her eyes and the last thing she saw was Carver shouting her name.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hawke plummeted down, flailing wildly. She reached out, trying to catch her fall. The air was thick, wet, like waking up in a cold bath. Was she even breathing? She couldn’t make out the shapes around her but the ground was swiftly approaching. Her stomach dropped, readying for impact.

She collapsed to her knees, but the crash was softer than she expected. The texture of the grass felt odd in her palms, the air shallow, odorless. She dared a peek through her dark bangs and gasped. This was Lothering, or some curious version of it. The hills didn’t stretch as far as she remembered, the colors unnaturally saturated. Many of her neighbor’s houses were missing. Was this…her dream?

She turned to see an unsightly orange house, her childhood home. Mother hated that house. The color made her nauseous and every other week something was falling apart, but it was all they could afford when they moved to Lothering. Father said that the color made it easy to find his way home and the constant projects kept his carpentry skills sharp for business. Hawke couldn’t remember how many days she spent watching Father work the wood.

Almost as soon as she thought of Father, she heard the familiar sound of a hammer pounding. She turned to see her father straddling the fence, a few nails jutting from his mouth. He was a fierce looking man with shaggy dark hair, and a full scruffy beard. Hawke had forgotten how tall he stood, how broad his shoulders were. His children looked nothing like him. Where he was pale skinned with bright blue eyes, Carver, Bethany and Hawke were tawny skinned with eyes dark like the night. The only thing they seemed to inherit was his hawk nose.

Bethany squealed, racing from the hills as Carver and little Hawke chased her with wooden swords that their father made. Was that…Wardens and Archdemon? Maker, she hadn’t played that since she was 14.

“Stop it,” Bethany cried. She turned around suddenly, causing her sibling to cease their assault.

“C’mon, Beth,” little Hawke grinned, a fresh cut on her mouth. “It’s no fun if you stop.”

“I’m always Archdemon. It’s someone else’s turn.” Indignant tears pricked her eyes as she adjusted her lopsided pigtails.

“Maybe Carver should be Archdemon. His breath is stinky enough,” little Hawke said, scrunching her face up at her brother.

“I can’t be. I’m the only one good with a sword.” Carver stuck out his tongue.

Their father, who had abandoned his tiresome task, snuck up behind them and pounced. “I’m the Archdemon and I shall devour you all,” he roared. They all screamed, trying to clamber away, but it took only a stride of his long legs to pluck Bethany and Hawke into his massive arms. The girls shrieked and giggled while Father twirled them round, blowing raspberries into their necks.

“Unhand my sisters, you fiend,” Carver cried heroically and jabbed his sword forward, smacking Bethany’s thigh.

“Ow,” she cried. “Carver!”

“You’ll have to do better than that, ser knight,” Father said, carrying the girls off while Carver pursued, batting at his legs.

This should have been the part where her mother ran out of the house, panicked by her children’s screams. Her hair would still be dark, and her worry lines just faint imprints. Dark eyes would curve upwards in a relieved smile and she’d call out, “Malcolm, what about the fence?” Hawke turned towards the door, expecting her to be there, but another woman was in her place.

“Bethany?” Hawke’s lip quivered.

It couldn’t be, but there she was just as Hawke remembered her. Shiny, straight hair clipped meticulously above her shoulders, her favorite red scarf tied neatly around her neck. “I know you,” Bethany said. No, her voice sounded wrong. Her sister’s voice was always warm and loving, even with her scoldings. This woman was cold, detached.

Hawke glanced back at her family. Carver had tackled Father while little Hawke and Bethany joined their brother with playful bites and prods. “Mercy, my little warriors. My bruises have bruises,” Father laughed.

With a wave of her hand she dismissed the shadows, but the impostor remained. This was not right. If she was not part of her dreams, there was only one thing she could be. Hawke drew her staff and readied a fire spell at her sister, snarling. “You’re going to regret desecrating my sister’s image.”

“But you called me here,” Bethany said, raising a hand in peace. “You say we were sisters. That seems…familiar.”

Hawke knew she should strike the demon down, but she hesitated. No one knew where people went after they died, but it was a common theory that everyone’s soul was connected to the Fade. Hawke wondered if she ever had the chance to explore this realm if she would ever run into her father and Bethany. Was it possible?

Hawke lowered her staff. “Bethany?”

“Yes…I believe I was once called by that name, but not anymore.” She closed her eyes, faintly glowing blue. “I am Compassion.”

Tears pricked Hawke’s eyes and she reached out to embrace her sister. If anybody could embody compassion, it would be Bethany. “B-but I don’t understand. Humans can’t become spirits, can they? I mean it doesn’t work like that, does it?”

Bethany was surprisingly cold, and there was no strength in her embrace. “I’m unsure,” she murmured, pulling away. Her face was still blank. “All I know is what I am and that you need help.”

“But…this can’t be right,” Hawke shook her head. “Me, embody compassion? Valor, honor, maybe…somethings wrong.”

“Charlotte, you have deep wells of compassion within you, but I cannot be your guardian as long as it is blocked.”

Did she? Hawke wasn’t so sure. Both of her siblings had called her a heartless shrew on many occasions. Hawke didn’t think herself mean-spirited, but she protected her own before she worried about anyone else. There were times she wished that she could be more like her mother and sister. Could she learn? “So,” Hawke bit her lip. “What must I do?”

Bethany closed her eyes, and Hawke had a strange feeling like she was naked, like the spirit was peering into her. “You feel responsible for my death.”

Hawke’s heart panged, and suddenly she could see her sister’s life slipping from her fingers. “I screwed up, Beth. I won’t hide from that.”

“It’s hardened your heart,” the spirit said. “You must let me go and accept me as I am.”

“Well before today, I thought I had,” Hawke murmured. She was shattering. “It’s been so hard to fill your shoes. It’s agony for Mother. I wish she could see you now.”

“You will make Mother smile again.” Relieved tears burned Hawke’s cheek. Her sister always knew what to say.

Bethany brushed the tears from Hawke’s cheek and cupped her face. “You are not yet worthy, but you can be. I can see you.”

“I can do this, Beth,” Hawke nodded, folding her hands into her own. “How do I convince you?”

“It’s not a matter of convincing. You are or you are not.”

Hawke gritted her teeth. “How?”

“I know this is difficult, Charlotte, but this realm had rules. You are not worthy as you are. You must tell me why I should I help you.”

Hawke gave an exasperated sigh. Of course there were rules- stupid, vague rules that made her want to tear her hair out. She pulled away and paced in a small figure eight, trying to scour her mind for something that would appease her sister. “Because I’m strong?”

Bethany shook her head. “Strength has no merit here. I can see you.”

“Because I want to help people,” Hawke tried.

Bethany’s face was uncharacteristically stern. “Do not lie, Charlotte. I can see you.”

Hawke gave a frustrated grunt, and continued to pace. She thought of dozens of reasons, but all of them felt false. What could she possibly mean? Finally she threw her hands up in the air. “Obviously, I’m not getting it, so if you can ‘see me,’ tell me what to do.”

Her sister shook her head unhelpfully. “You are not worthy as you are. You must tell me your truth.”

“My truth?” Hawke uttered. Did becoming a spirit mean becoming obnoxious and cryptic? “My truth is that I’m a shitty person and no one knows that more than me.” Her eyes welled up and she wiped frustrated tears with the palm of her hand. This was useless. She was useless. Hawke couldn’t save her sister, but her hands were still stained with her blood.

‘No,’ Hawke told herself. She couldn’t think like that. She looked at Bethany through her tears, and she stared back blankly. Her sister would not want her to blame herself. Determination surged through Hawke. “I failed you. Nothing can make that right, but give me a chance. You know I can do this.”

Bethany gave a hollow smile. “You are worthy.”

Hawke sighed in relief, feeling like weight had been lifted off of her. Bethany pulled her in; her arms were happiness and all of her worries melted away. She stoked Hawke’s hair; a pleasant pressure pulsed at the back of her head.

“You need to let me in,” she whispered. Her words were strangely soothing, like being carried to bed after falling asleep in front of the hearth.

“I…” Hawke suddenly realized her mind was groggy. “Anders said…”

“I know this is what you want. Trust me..”

Bethany folded her head against her chest. It felt like home. Hawke wanted nothing more than to say yes, but there was a panic in her bliss that she couldn’t name. Her thoughts refused to string together, as if she was a fly stuck in a spider’s web. “Bethany…somethings wrong.”

Bethany’s nails felt more like talons combing her hair. “Everything is alright. It will always be alright,” she whispered. Hawke dizzily pulled away, but the spirit gripped her tighter. The pressure in the back of her head twinged painfully.

“You’re…not…” Hawke tried to finish the thought, but a sharp pang stopped her. She felt as if a blade was slowly splitting her mind in half.

The spirit’s lips curved into a stolen smile. “I can protect you,” she promised, but now Hawke knew that was a lie. She was trapped in a demon’s web and what little resolve remained was being worn away with every crooning word.

The faces of her broken family passed through her mind. Mother would never recover. Carver would never forgive her. ‘No,’ she thought stubbornly. She was stronger than this.

A frayed grin spread across Hawke’s face. “Maybe you should buy me dinner, first.”

The facade of the fiend quickly melted away, and she found herself ensnared in the clutches of a desire demon. The fire on her head whipped wildly, and her face was flushed with shock or fury. Could demons feel either? “It is too late,” she sneered. Her tail wrapped around Hawke’s torso, like a vise. “I already have you.”

Her talons dug deeper as she tore Hawke’s mind, but she summoned fire to her hands, and engulfed the demon, singeing herself in the process. Desire screeched, raking Hawke’s chest with sharp talons. She cast a volley of ice into the demon’s chest. It’s tail whipped back, releasing Hawke as she tore crystal spikes out of her breasts.

Hawke’s own chest was ragged, and blood trickled out her skull where the fiend had bored into her. Her head was light and she had the queerest sensation that she was floating. Did she lose too much blood?

“No,” the demon roared, striking at her. “They will not have you!”

The ground fell from beneath Hawke’s feet and she plummeted into darkness.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Charlotte!”

Hawke woke with a jolt; a splintering headache thudded in the back of her skull and her chest stung. She wanted to soothe her pain with warm healing magic, but her arms were numb, tingling. She could hardly find strength to lift her head. Brawny arms cradled her. Her eyes fluttered open to see the silhouette of her father against the lantern light.

“Maker, did I drink a lake?” Hawke groaned.

Anders’ relieved laughter filled her ears. “That’s just the sleeping draught wearing off. You’ll feel better after a meal.” His cool hand rested on her forehead and she leaned into it. Strength returned to her limbs and she could hardly flex her stiff fingers. The pain faded, and her eyes focused enough to see her brother hovering over her.

Carver wasn’t staring at Hawke but at Merrill who was leaning beside him with an oddly concerned expression on his face. “Is she…” he trailed off, as if he was afraid to complete that sentence.

Merrill placed a reassuring hand on her brother’s shoulder. “She’s fine. The scent of the demon’s completely gone.” Hawke hadn’t realized that Carver had a dagger poised to her heart until Merrill plucked it from his trembling hand.

He dropped Hawke, her head thudded against the bed frame. She sat up, hissing, “watch it, jackass!”

“You selfish bitch!”Carver barked back. He stood up, angrily adjusting his clothes, but his fingers were clumsy, trembling. “What did it offer you?”

“What are you-”

His nose was rippled in fury. “A mountain of coin? Bigger breasts-”

“Why, did you want some?” Hawke clumsily shot up, shoving herself into Carver’s face.

He glared back, refusing to back off. “You’re always doing this- always dragging me into your messes-”

Hawke cut him off with a mocking laugh. “Then run back to Mother, you dangling shit string!”

Anders attempted to shove himself in between the siblings. “This is a place of healing and salvation. I will not-”

“Stay out of this!” they both shouted in unison.

Anders stepped back, red-faced with anger. Poor Merrill was huddled in the corner, like a kicked puppy. ‘Shit,’ Hawke thought. She wasn’t one to explode but her little brother always managed to get a rise out of her. What a mess they made.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said bitterly. “We’ll be civil.”

“Good,” Anders nodded, but she could tell he was irritated. He retreated to his desk, slamming his spell book shut.

Hawke was mixed with embarrassment and grief. Somehow, Carver and her always ended up like this. Why did they always end up like this?

“It was Bethany.”

Carver flinched at her name, at first not understanding. When he did, he turned away, unable to hide the pain in his eyes. Hawke wasn’t sure why she told him. It wouldn’t have done him any good to know, but she still wanted him to. Maybe this was her way of getting revenge. Maybe she still hoped he’d understand.

Hawke sighed deeply. “Look, I admit this didn’t go according to plan, but next time-”

“Next time,” Carver shook his head, sniffing sharply. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble?”

Just as she thought.

“Hawke,” Anders approached them with bundles of herbs in his arms. “Perhaps you should consider what Carver’s saying.”

“What-” Hawke’s mouth gaped open, completely blindsided.

“I’m not trying to insult you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to continue. You weren’t properly trained to deal with the Fade-”

“I did pretty damn well, didn’t I?” Where was this coming from? This was just a little bump, part of the process. They expected this.

“I’m sorry,” Anders repeated, but his voice told her that it was final.

She gawked at Anders and then at Carver who was mouthing a thank you to him.

“Fine,” she spat. She moved to Anders’ desk and shuffled through his drawers.

“Hawke, what are you-”

“Ha!” she said triumphantly and snatched the vial of lyrium out of the case in his bottom drawer. “This still belongs to me.”

“Hawke, don’t-”

She shrugged Anders away, causing him to drop a clump of elves ear and stormed towards the exit.

“Charlotte-” Carver called out, but she was out the door before anyone could stop her.

Hawke plodded to Lowtown, quivering in irritation. “Unfucking believable,” she muttered to herself. Now she had the lyrium tucked safely in her coinpurse but no way to get into the Fade. She could try asking some of the Coterie mages, but they were more likely to loot the vial off her corpse. Why did Anders have to be a fucking waffle?

Hawke needed a pint…or three, and maybe she’d chance a bowl of Nora’s mystery stew. Hopefully she’d run into Isabela or Varric. They always had a good story to tell.

“Hawke,” Merrill’s voice called out behind her.

She glanced back to see the little elf waving one hand as she scampered towards her. Hawke gritted her teeth, but stopped. The elf would get lost again if she ditched her.

“You can spare me the lecture,” Hawke said acidly.

“Oh, you won’t get a lecture from me,” Merrill said. She fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, careful not to meet Hawke’s gaze. “I know that Anders and Carver think they’re doing what’s best, but…I know what it’s like to have no one believe in you.”

Hawke’s mind traced back to Sundermount, how spiteful the other Dalish were to her. Once again, her heart softened for the little mage. “Hey, we’ll prove them all wrong, won’t we?” Hawke said, nudging her. Merrill gave a shy laugh as she rubbed her arm. “While you’re here, why don’t I buy you a pint?”

“Actually…I wanted to say- You have the lyrium and I was thinking- I mean if you are still planning on-,” Merrill began to babble, but she stopped herself. The little mage puffed up her chest and said, “If you want, I might be able to help.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fenris was used to the dull ache that came with his lyrium tattoos, but today the pain was excruciating. His sweltering headache had worsened and all his joints were inflamed. His chest and throat were thick and he couldn’t stop coughing. Cold sweat ran down his back and drenched his fingers. He took a cold bath hoping to soothe his joints, but it hardly helped.

So he wrapped himself up in all the blankets he owned, trying to fall asleep, but even that was useless. Perhaps that was just as well. He was afraid to dream, afraid to meet Danarius again. He could still feel the cold chains wrapped around his wrists from yesterday. He couldn’t…he just couldn’t…

Fenris needed a distraction. He dragged himself to the living room, but only managed to prop himself on the sofa. He scraped his runny nose on the rough blankets, mulling over his misery. Finally, he sheared a few strips off and plugged his nose, just to save himself the movement.

A sharp rap came from the door. ‘Hawke,’ he thought. He did nothing, hoping she’d leave. Everything was awful enough; he didn’t want to be the butt of another inane joke.

He could just imagine it now: she’d slink in, shamelessly swaying those hips saying, ‘Why, Fenris, aren’t you dripping with good looks today?’ Maybe not. He wasn’t good at impressions.

The knock came again. He sighed deeply, his breath wet.

Moving was like being dragged against glass, but he heaved himself off the sofa. The room spun with each step and he stumbled towards the front door. “Go away, Hawke,” he called out, but his hoarse voice cracked.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m prettier,” a man replied.

Fenris perked up. Was that…? He fumbled with the locks and peeked out. Sure enough, the dwarf stood on his porch, crossbow slung across his shoulder. Varric laughed, pointing to his own bulbous nose. “That’s a good look for you, elf.”

Fenris’ face flamed. With one swift motion, he tore the moist cloth from his nose and cast it aside. “If you need assistance, I suggest that you come back another day.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You look like shit,” Varric chuckled, pushing himself inside. “I should make you my Ma’s Old Whiskey Sunrise. Guaranteed to knock that cold right out of you…or knock you out cold.”

“I can hold my liquor, dwarf,” Fenris spat, but it didn’t have the bite that it usually did. He was too exhausted to argue. Once again, someone else had entered his home uninvited. Did Free Marchers have no concept of personal space?

Fenris followed the dwarf to his own kitchen.

“Here, let me fix you something,” Varric said, and promptly clambered onto the counters to scour through his pantries before Fenris could protest. Of course they were empty. He jumped down, and patted down his breeches with a scrunched up frown. “You know I can cut a deal with my grocer if you’re having trouble.”

Fenris bristled. Yet again, no one seemed to be able to mind their own business. “I’d prefer if you would get to the point of your visit.”

“Right, I’ll keep my nose clean.” Varric held his hands up in peace. “Anyways, Rivaini pops in last night, smelling like a ruminating diaper, and tells me this grand tale ending with your little arrangement with Hawke.” He let out a hearty chuckle. “That woman’s many things but it’s obvious she has no business sense.”

“I am not renegotiating,” Fenris said firmly.

“You misunderstand me. Hawke’s business is her own.” Varric dug through his pack as he said, “Which reminds me, have you seen her? I have a job lined up but she hasn’t visited the Hanged Man in a few days.”

Why would he know anything of her whereabouts? “As you say, her business is her own,” Fenris muttered.

The dwarf shrugged in reply and handed him a scroll. Fenris wiped his runny nose on his sleeve as he examined it. “What is this?” He kept his voice even, not betraying his underlying panic.

“Nothing personal, but one has to keep friendships and business separate. As you can see, everything is standard.”

“Of course I see,” Fenris said a little too eagerly. Streaky fingerprints frayed the edges as he struggled to conceal an angry tremble. Desperately, he scanned it, trying to decode the contract, but of course, nothing made sense. Why couldn’t it just make sense?

“You need to sit down?”

“Yes,” Fenris murmured, and scooted into the chair. He knew he was not equipped to agree to anything, but pride kept him silent.

“I’ll give you some time to bring me revisions, but-“

“No need,’ Fenris interrupted. If Varric left it with him he’d surely burn it. “Do you have a…writing utensil?” Fenris felt his cheeks flame.

“Writing utensil?” Varric echoed with a chuckle and plucked a small tube from his belt. “No, but I have a pen.”

So that’s what it was called. He took it from Varric, but had no idea how to hold it and gripped it in his fist as if it were a club. “You have to uncap it,” Varric explained. “It’s one of those new fountain pens from Orzammar that has self-contained inkwells.” The dwarf took it for a second and twisted the cap to show a shiny golden nib.

He handed it back to Fenris, who still gripped it awkwardly in his fist. “What do I…I mean where-“

“Right here on the dotted line,” Varric poked at the bottom. “Though you sure you don’t need more time? It’s a big decision.”

“No I…” Fenris stopped to cough violently into his shoulder. He hit his chest, trying to contain it.

Varric shook his head and frowned. “I knew this guy named Vinny that tried to go into business with my brother. Bugger didn’t read the terms closely enough and ended up signing over his house and all of his chickens. For all you know there’s a clause that says you have to change your name to Nancy.”

“Should I be worried, dwarf?”

“Just a cautionary tale, friend,” Varric grinned.

Fenris paused for a moment to consider it, but any coin he gained from the expedition was more than he had planned. “There is no need for concern. I’ll be fine,” he finally replied. He felt like he was saying it more to himself than to Varric.

He took in a ragged breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured Danarius’ signature, how elegantly the letters curved into one symbol. A wave of nausea hit him, and he steadied himself on the edge of the table. He gritted his teeth, waiting for it to pass. At least he had nothing to heave.

Tentatively, he put the pen to the page, but he pressed down a bit too hard, and a mess of ink came squirting out at once. Gracelessly, he tried to blot it out with his blanket. He was aware that Varric was now staring so he quickly scribbled the signature from memory. The pen wobbled, making shaky, unrecognizable lines. What a mess.

It would have to do.

Varric raised a questioning eyebrow as Fenris handed both pen and page, ink dripping from both. He prayed that the dwarf had not caught on to his deficiency. “Right, I’ll get this to Hawke the next time I see her.

“Thank you,” Fenris murmured. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all I needed. Take care, elf.” Varric patted Fenris on the shoulder as he passed. He jerked back instinctively, but the dwarf was already fiddling with the front door.

Later that day, Fenris heard another knock at the door. When he answered it, he found a box filled with fresh blankets, groceries, and a bottle of hard whiskey with orange wedges. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Merrill’s bed was nothing more than a thin straw-stuffed mattress. Every time Hawke shifted to get comfortable, the shaky wood frame complained, threatening to collapse. The wood in some of the walls were rotted and holes were stuffed with socks. Hawke wondered why Merrill would do such a thing when a fat, gray rat skittered into the bedroom, mouth stuffed with bread. It squeaked at her before it squeezed into a hole beside Merrill’s mirror. If Gamlen’s house was held together with mud than Merrill’s house was held together by faith.

The only thing of value was a tall, beautiful vanity mirror in the corner of the bedroom. It’s base was made up of intricate winding wood, and it’s frame carved in a design Hawke had never seen. The wood above the mirror mimicked the waves of the ocean and a goat appeared to be jumping from it. A crack ran deep through the glass, distorting Hawke’s face. She felt eerie looking at her reflection.

Merrill came from the living room fumbling with a pot of tea and a single cup. Hawke thought to ask if she needed help, but Merrill placed the dishware on the nightstand. “Thanks for waiting. That took a bit longer than I expected.”

Indeed. There was only a pinch of finely ground lyrium in the cup, but no other indication that Merrill had been preparing a poultice. “Won’t that just give me lyrium poisoning?”

“Oh, this isn’t for you,” Merrill chirped, drowning the lyrium in tea.

“Blood magic?” Hawke had an inkling, but was afraid to confirm it.

Merill cringed, as if waiting for the familiar lecture. “I’m open to suggestions.”

All of Hawke’s life she pictured blood mages to be dark-haired unfeeling villains with twirling mustaches like in her adventure novels; not adorable, quirky elves that babbled. Blood magic was the main reason that the Chantry cited for imprisoning mages. Even Father, who was by no means a religious man had warned against it in her training. She could already hear his voice: “there are always better ways, little bird.”

Well, it wasn’t like she was making deals with demons.

Hesitantly, Merrill sat next to Hawke. She stirred the lyrium tea with a cracked wooden spoon, blowing off the steam. Slowly, the red liquid turned into a familiar blue.

“So…do I need to bleed into the cup or eat the beating heart of a chicken?” Hawke joked, trying to hide her discomfort.

Merrill put a finger to her mouth and said, “I don’t think I have a chicken, but there are plenty of rats if you’d like.” Hawke’s eyes bulged and she opened her mouth in protest but was cut off by Merrill’s giggles. “I’m trying my hand at sarcasm. Did I do it right?”

Hawke laughed in relief. That was obvious. “Yeah, just fine.”

Merrill tapped the spoon on the side of a cup before setting it aside. She took a deep breath and guzzled the tea in three gulps. Immediately, her eyes squeezed shut and she shivered, gritting her teeth in an effort to keep it down.

“It’s lucky we have this lyrium. Normally a life must be sacrificed to send a mage into the Beyond.” Merrill placed a hand over her mouth and burped.

Hawke gave another hearty laugh, but the blood mage answered with a blank stare. She was serious. Nonchalantly, Hawke cleared her throat. What had she agreed to?

“You should lie down.” Merrill patted her pillow before hopping to her feet. Hawke nodded, but there was a nervous jolt in the pit of her stomach as she sank into the bed. The mattress was softer than Gamlen’s floor but the sheets were itchy and the pillow wasn’t much better than her straw-filled potato sack.

Merrill unbuckled her sleeve to reveal a pale forearm, lined neatly with deep, even scars. After a few moments, Merrill’s skin began to shimmer and she could hear the tug of the lyrium. For a moment, she thought she felt Fenris.

The little mage drew a dagger from her belt, and placed it against her skin. Without wincing, she sliced a scar open. Warm blood poured over Hawke’s chest instantly coming to life. The raw magic gave Hawke goosebumps as it rushed down her torso and arms, like a thousand ants marching on her body. Her skin crawled and she tore at her chest, but the blood was thick and held fast.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dar’eth shiral,” Merrill whispered as the magic washed over Hawke’s head.

Hawke plunged into the Fade, like a rag doll tossed overboard into the ocean in the middle of a storm. She screamed as she plummeted wildly towards the ground. Everything was twirling so fast, Hawke was sure she’d hurl. Suddenly her body jolted to a halt.

Her head still felt like it was tumbling, and she pushed herself onto her back, watching the sky spin. Dust irritated Hawke’s nose and she sneezed twice. Where was she? Dizzily, she raised her head, as everything gradually slowed.

She expected to find Lothering, but she did not recognize this part of the Fade. All of the color had been drained from the terrain, washing everything in dingy yellow. The hills were shaped in a nonsensical formation. In the sky, houses were suspended in midair. She thought she recognized her family home, but this was impossible. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet, scanning for something she recognized. Had Merrill sent her to the wrong place?

“I’m disappointed in you, Charlotte,” a light voice came from behind. Hawke turned to see her young mother dressed in a plain peasant frock. All the worry lines had disappeared from the corner of her eyes and her dark hair was in a loose side braid. Mother hadn’t worn braids since Father died.

“No, you’ve got it wrong,” Hawke protested, pointing to her face. “Mother shows disappointment in her eyes. She’s too nice to say it aloud.”

Desire smirked, which was an odd thing to see on Mother’s face. “My mistake. Perhaps I should try someone I know rather well.”

Hair sprouted from Mother’s chin as she grew half a foot. Her nose bulged out as Mother’s face melted into her Father’s. The fiend unsheathed Father’s staff, twirling it in the same careless manner and winked. It was eerie how accurately she mimicked Father’s cocky swagger and crooked grin.

“Father wasn’t a blood mage,” Hawke barked. She readied a fire spell and reached for her staff but it was not there. Shit.

Her father’s laugh echoed through the air, causing Hawke to shiver. “How much do you know about dear Malcolm? After all, he was a private man.”

Hawke shot a fireball at the demon, but she twirled in of the same manner Father would. ‘She’s lying,’ Hawke told herself, but she was unsettled.

She raised her arms, drawing fire from the sky. Her father bounded back from the first meteor, and the second, and the third. Hawke gritted her teeth in frustration, trying to hone in on the demon, but her aim was still wild. How could this shadow recreate Father’s graceful movements?

Father rushed towards her, staff low and ready. Hawke wrenched herself free from the fire spell and shot a dagger of ice. The demon shimmered, throwing up her arm and Hawke’s magic crashed against the barrier. Desire kept rushing towards her until she closed the distance, swinging her Father’s bladed staff. Hawke side-stepped the blow and grabbed the staff, but it twisted out of her hands. She was too close.

A dagger of ice blasted from Father’s hand and she barely spun out of it’s way. The demon swung again, clipping Hawke’s side. She cried out, releasing a cone of cold as she dodged another thrust.

Desire recoiled, but a stray dagger impaled her stomach. Hawke lunged forward, grappling for the staff, but the demon shoved her back following it with a bolt of lightning. She ducked down, the spell cracked in her ears as it whizzed above her head. Hawke shot back up, ramming her elbow into the demon’s jaw. Desire staggered, disoriented.

Hawke wrenched the staff from the fiend’s hand. Finally, she had the advantage. She raised her arms, ready to hammer it down on the demon’s head, but hesitated. Father’s ragged stomach yanked Hawke’s mind back to Bethany’s death. Before she could compose herself the demon vanished.

‘Idiot,’ Hawke cursed.

Her eyes darted around the Fade but everything was oddly tranquil. She dared a few steps when her side twinged; her leathers now steeped in blood. Hastily, she waved healing magic over the wound.

“Must you be difficult?” Father’s disembodied echoed in her mind, causing her skull wound to throb.

“Kind of my default state,” Hawke hissed.

She could feel Desire cracking into her, pawing through her thoughts. She tried distracting herself with Gamlen’s qunari cheese, where Bianca got her name, anything to keep the demon at bay, but still she was stripped bare.

“I see you.” Hawke froze. Naked skin on velvet.

Instinct guided Hawke’s hands and she clashed against Fenris’ broadsword. She dug her heels into the ground, bracing against his heavy swing, but still she stumbled. Hawke twisted out of the way of his next thrust, but it grazed her side, reopening her wound.

“We’ll be together one way or another,” Fenris’ liquid voice crooned.

Hawke’s face flamed as she resisted the urge to curl into herself. This was as embarrassing as it was dire. Fenris was an exceptionally agile swordsman, and though Desire was only able to recreate a fraction of Father’s grace, the extra power and speed might be enough to gain favor.

She retreated, trying to give herself time for a rain of fire, but the elf gave chase. Frantically, Hawke hurled a dagger of ice, but Desire blocked it with the side of her claymore. Hawke followed it with another fireball. Once again, the claymore shielded her except for a few mild burns.

Hawke rushed in, staff twirling, but it was parried with another heavy swing. She cried out, landing with a hard thud. This wasn’t working. Fenris was too quick for anything more than a basic spell and she didn’t have the strength to take him head on.

She barely rolled out of the way of another thrust, leaving a pool of blood where she fell. She scrambled up only to be knocked back with another battering swing.

The demon charged again, and Hawke panicked. She side-stepped out of the way as she swept the underside of the blade. There was enough force to misdirect the blade without the knock back. Desire lost her footing in the momentum and stumbled forward. The demon struck out again, but Hawke slid her staff up the blade driving it upwards. Her jelly arms were unable to keep hold of her staff and it feel a few feet away.

“Shit!” Panicking, Hawke cast a fireball, but the demon knocked her hand aside.

Hawke leapt back before another swing could cleave her in half. Her heart pounded in her ears as Fenris dashed towards her, blade ready to plunge into her heart. In a final act of desperation, she aimed a cone of cold before Desire. The demon slipped forward before it encased her feet. Fenris’ green eyes widened in panic as it ran up the demon’s legs. She opened her mouth to say something when an icicle speared through her jaw. A second icicle pierced clean through her chest, then her stomach, then chaotically into her arms an legs.

Fenris’ face melted away to reveal a dying purple flame. For a moment all was silent except for the soft drip of blood tapping on frozen grass.

Hawke threw her head back and cackled hysterically in relief. She thought for sure she’d be a flesh sack. Hawke nudged the demon’s corpse, still cackling. “What’s wrong? Getting cold feet?”

The demon’s skin flaked at Hawke’s touch and floated up into the sky, like ashes up the chimney. The effect cascaded until demon was nothing but floating dust. Hawke wiped her eyes, her chuckles fading into silence. “Shame no one’s around when I’m being hilarious.”

“You are indeed your Father’s daughter,” an ethereal voice spoke behind her.

Hawke whirled around to find a spirit unlike the desire demon. Transparent blue light made up her body, and she could only see an imprint of the spirit’s features. This unnerved Hawke, but she didn’t feel threatened. Somehow, she seemed familiar.

“I came in search of an answer to a question asked long ago,” the spirit spoke. Her voice echoed through the Fade, making Hawke shiver.

“Well I might have a few questions of my own.” Hawke called a fire spell to her fingertips, ready to strike. “Like why does everyone and their mom know my father?”

“I watched over Malcolm’s dreams for many years as I’ve watched yours.”

“Great,” Hawke chuckled wryly. “I have a stalker.”

The spirit approached her, but Hawke threw a fireball in her path. “I don’t know what you want but unless you want to end up like ice princess here,” Hawke gestured to the icicle pile with her thumb, “you better keep your distance.”

“I am a spirit of Fortitude. I do not associate with demons.” The spirit almost sounded offended.

“Fortitude?” For a moment, Hawke was speechless. That couldn’t be right. She accomplished what she came for, but what? Fortitude? Hawke laughed, because if she didn’t, she’d cry.

“You find this amusing?”

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well, yeah, considering my ‘virtue’ is putting up with bullshit.”

Even though the spirit was featureless, Hawke could feel her cold stare. “Tis more than abiding harsh circumstances. You are a foundation in which others anchor, a haven for those lost.”

Hawke snorted. “Lady, I’m just trying to survive."

“Perchance the goals are not dissimilar.”

She studied Fortitude in consideration. It did sounds more reasonable than ‘vast wells of compassion that need unlocking.’ “Alright. Say I believe you. What do you want?”

“Do not think me a demon,” Fortitude said sternly. Hawke raised a suspicious eyebrow, but didn’t say more for fear of offending the spirit further. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the spirit said, “Might I know what happened to Malcolm, that would be enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long. I was on a trip in Cali for almost a month so it was really hard to get time to write. I hope that my next chapter comes much more steadily, especially with the release of Inquisition in about a week. *sobs*


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